Dysfunctional Family Dynamics
by Hane no Zaia
Summary: AU in which Cross dislikes surprises, disagrees with paternity, and disrespects privacy; Allen despises Cross, disrespects curfews, and makes a bid for freedom; Lavi is pleasantly surprised, unpleasantly surprised, and then outright horrified. And that's just chapter one.
1. Chapter I

_I've been thinking about changing the title of this for a while now. I considered the title Family Matters, but then another story of mine snagged the title so I figured that I had to make do with something else. _

_The title "Dysfunctional Family Dynamics" used to belong to an old APH fic of mine, but since that has since long been removed and is highly unlikely to ever resurface, I might as well snatch the title since I figured that it fits rather well with this._

_Insert random disclaimer here / Don't own, don't sue, please drop a review._

_Last edited on August 23__th__ 2014. Features the edited chapter 1-2,5 out of CtL._

**- o0o -**

**Chapter I:**

_**In which Cross dislikes surprises, disagrees with paternity, and disrespects privacy.**_

_**In which Allen despises Cross, disrespects curfews, and makes a bid for freedom.**_

_**In which Lavi is pleasantly surprised, unpleasantly surprised, and then outright horrified.**_

**- o0o -**

Cross Marian had never really liked surprises.

Surprises generally equalled the bad kind of surprises, in other words, those which did not arrive in the shape of some seriously hot barmaid with every intention of sleeping with him.

This, Cross supposed, was one of the bad surprises, as it would probably end up costing him a whole lot more than he had at hand on a regular basis.

Apparently, the fling that he had had sixteen or seventeen years or so previous had ended up giving him a whole lot more than just a night of some of the best sex that he could ever recall having. Evidently, seeing that he had been somewhat intoxicated at the time in question, there was really no real way of telling whether this recollection was accurate or not.

Apparently, he now had a son; another offspring whose existence was so utterly unintended and unwanted to the degree that he secretly wished there was a rewind button somewhere, or that there was some kind of store or pawnbroker capable of receiving the aforementioned offspring.

Anyhow, this brought the total number of offspring that he had been made aware of up to the mindboggling count of two.

It would suffice to say that Cross had been surprised when he had been called to the Will reading of one of his former spouses, a woman that he remembered only vaguely and certainly not for her good qualities, at least not beyond her sparkling grey eyes, her slim waist, her vanilla perfume, her welcoming embrace and her barely concealed psychotic tendencies.

In hindsight, it was perfectly obvious that this short relationship of theirs had been decidedly unhealthy. Cross Marian had always applauded himself on his good judgement in ending it as soon as he did, though apparently not soon enough.

He stole another glance at the photograph in his hand where he sat in the backseat of a taxi, heading back to his apartment after a long afternoon spent with the solicitor of his late spouse.

Apparently, his late and borderline psychotic ex-spouse had committed suicide.

Apparently, she had left a son behind.

Apparently, she had explicitly stated that Cross take his parental responsibility, as he was apparently written down as the father in said child's birth certificate.

Apparently, said child had not even lived with her for years, having been taken in and pretty much adopted by a man whose name had rung eerily familiar in Cross' ears when he had first heard it.

Apparently, said child's makeshift guardian had recently died in a hit-and-run accident, and the kid had apparently run away soon thereafter.

Cross snorted, wishing that he could take a smoke then and there in order to calm his nerves. Say whatever one liked about Fate, but apparently it had an impeccable sense of timing.

He sighed, taking another look at the photograph where he had put it down on the seat next to him.

Grey eyes ‒ familiar yet at the same time unfamiliar ‒ glared up at him from the photograph, half-hidden beneath messy tresses of white hair belonging to the little rascal who was evidently his biological offspring, holding up a name-plate and all, seeing that it was the police's mug shot of him that Cross had received.

Apparently, his biological offspring gone rogue had gone to quite elaborate lengths in order to avoid being taken in, if his vicious assault on social workers and even a police officer could serve as any sort of indication.

Luckily enough for the kid in question, he had been let off with a warning due to the rather unusual circumstances surrounding his case.

Unluckily enough for the kid, Cross would wring his little neck if such an offence was ever repeated, since whatever fines or other problems might come out of such a thing, Cross himself would as the kid's new guardian be deemed at least partially responsible for the brat's acts of misdemeanour.

**- o0o -**

Meeting the brat who had already caused him loads of trouble, Cross wasn't all too sure as to what to make of him.

For one thing, it became quite apparent that the kid hated him, at least if the searing glares sent his way were to serve as any sort of indication.

Another prime indication of the kid's intense dislike of him could be found in the extremely crappy drawings that the kid had apparently done in his honour, depicting him being thrown into what looked suspiciously much like an active volcano.

Cross didn't understand kids, or teenagers for that matter; he didn't understand them and he had no particular wish to understand them either, but he supposed that he had to learn at least some basic patterns of adult-teenage communication as he was had now been saddled with one.

But even so, with his near complete lack of understanding of teenage behaviour, it was not lost on him that the kid's intense hatred of him was irrational.

After all, Cross himself hadn't done anything to the brat that would merit such an emotional response; not yet at least.

Then again, seeing to the fact that the kid had apparently been living with his borderline psychotic mother until the age of seven or eight, perhaps the kid's emotional response was perfectly justified, at least if one took that bit into consideration; his mother had not only been psychotic at times but also abusive on occasion.

Cross sighed; he sure knew how to pick his spouses. Now if only they would stay alive for long enough so that their shared offspring would have turned eighteen in the meantime.

And, as if the mother herself hadn't been trauma-inducing enough, the kid's previous guardian – one Mana Walker – had also not been quite right in the head, at least if the reports were to be believed, courtesy of his older brother's tragic death.

Nea Walker.

Cross could vaguely recall the bold headlines screaming murder of the mysterious death of a talented musician; a death that was later ruled a suicide, although said musician's fans still believed it had actually been question of a sinister and quite gruesome murder.

Conspiracy theories; he scoffed at them.

Then again, maybe there was just the slightest grain of truth to them, seeing that there were things which did not fit in the picture of Nea Walker's supposed suicide.

Then again, it really didn't matter.

The only relevance that Nea Walker himself had to Cross at the moment was that said man's halfway insane brother had illegally adopted his biological offspring and seemingly raised said offspring in some rather unconventional ‒ and perhaps also questionable ‒ ways.

But enough about that; it was time to get back to the point.

The point being?

**- o0o -**

Silver-grey eyes shot another dirty glare his way before the teen scurried off to his new room.

Then again, considering the size of it, it hardly qualified for such a label; sizeable closet would probably be closer to the truth, but in the end, it was all a question of semantics. Besides, with Cross himself being a bit short on space, it had been the only one that he had been willing to sacrifice, even though it had meant that he had been forced to throw out his rather impressive collection of empty wine bottles.

The brat had his notebook in hand, and was obviously planning something troublesome.

Cross was almost willing to bet his left hand on that it was another escape plan.

Shrugging, he ended up taking another sip out of the filled wineglass in his hand.

Earlier, he had attempted to reason with the kid, only to find that such an action was a waste of both of their time, as said kid apparently could not be reasoned with.

Earlier, he had been the one who had gotten a door slammed in his face when he had forced himself to at least _try_ to be understanding of the emotional turmoil plaguing his newly attained protégé.

Now, just a little wiser than earlier, Cross had given up on trying to understand the kid and had left his problems for the bottle to sort out; having a kid running around, slamming in doors or just glaring at him all day had grated on his nerves, not to even mention on his patience.

_Give him time_, they had said, those mind-shrinking psychiatrists over at the social services. _Give him time to adapt, time to get used to you, time to get attached…_

_Bollocks_, Cross internally scoffed. _As though time would be able to make any difference; the kid's fucked up in the head and there's no amount of time that can change that._

And to make matters worse, the kid had her eyes too – her beautiful silver-grey eyes – acting as an eternal reminder of a messed up relationship that could never be erased, not even when the owner of those beautiful eyes lay six feet deep and was being consumed by worms or whatever, because she still lived on even after death, reflected in the eyes of a child that she allegedly hated and that she had forcefully imposed upon a man who had little or no love to give.

Cross sighed deeply, draining his glass before swiftly pouring himself another. He reasoned that he might as well go ahead and drown his sorrows while he still had enough money to buy himself proper drinks.

**- o0o -**

The point being?

Cross seriously didn't like kids, or teenagers for that matter. Period. No further explanation was needed.

As a matter of fact, he secretly wished that his deceased ex-spouse had entrusted him with a kitten or a puppy or something instead of a child, seeing to the fact that the former could be dumped in pet shelters if one simply could not stand them.

Evidently, due to the existence of orphanages, the opportunity to dump the kid and never see him again was a viable option, technically speaking. However, seeing that his ex-spouse had actually left a surprising amount of money in a trust fund to said kid, this was one of those so called offers that one could not refuse, seeing to the fact that refusing would equal near total bankruptcy on his part, as some insane spending and borrowing habits in his youth had served to eternally blacklist him in the books of most money-lending facilities in the UK.

He sighed again, draining another glass before setting it back onto the table. He tilted his head back, surveying the somewhat murky ceiling as he could feel a migraine creeping in.

_It's all 'bout the money_, his internal monologue relayed to him, and in a way, he supposed that it really was.

**- o0o -**

Karma… was a bitch, or at least that was what Cross thought when he made his way home after another day of working as a freelance consultant to the Black Order, a company which dabbled in everything from banking, security and surveillance equipment to renewable energy, and obviously everything in-between. With all due honesty, Cross himself did not really care all that much for what the company actually dabbled or even specified in, seeing that he was perfectly happy with things as long as he could emerge from it at least somewhat richer than he had been previously.

Speaking of work, his job as a freelance consultant had always had one very favourable thing going for it; he enjoyed regular business trips at their expense and got to visit all kinds of exotic places without paying as much as a penny for it.

However, taking the most recent occurrences in his life into account, a slight complication had arisen in the shape of his newly discovered fifteen-year-old son, whom Cross by no means could bring along as he did not want to inconvenience the company, but most of all, because he did not want to inconvenience himself, and especially not in case his newly attained protégé decided to have another go at running away whilst on foreign soil.

In short, Cross Marian had three alternatives to choose from:

One: He could stay at home and deal with a shitload of boring paperwork, making sure that the brat did not get any funny ideas.

Two: He could bring the brat along for the ride and let Fate run its course.

Three…

He hauled out his cell phone.

**- o0o -**

"_It's me."_

**- o0o -**

"_Yeah, that 'me'."_

**- o0o -**

"_I need a favour…"_

**- o0o -**

Allen Walker pulled out the backpack containing his most essential belongings before slamming the car door shut with a bit more force than necessary, standing there with a dark and sour look on his face. "Now what?"

Cross didn't bother answering, slamming his own car door a bit more gently before gesturing towards the somewhat old-looking two-storey red-brick house in front of them.

If anything, then he would have been tempted to grab the kid by the scruff, hauling him over there immediately. However, having learnt – through the method of trial and error – that the brat did not like to be touched ‒ his nearly broken nose would be able to testify to that ‒ Cross settled for keeping his distance.

Besides, the brat was dirty – just like every other brat in existence – and Cross really had no desire whatsoever to lay hand on him any more than was absolutely necessary.

Then again, the brat did deserve a box on the ear. As a matter of fact, he was practically asking for it.

However, being the supposed adult in the situation, Cross knew better than to give in to the provocations of said brat, because said fifteen-year-old would obviously _love_ to have some sort of physical injury to bring out as evidence in order to have him disqualified as a guardian, and as Cross' financial situation was all but balanced at the moment, Cross knew better than to give the kid what he so obviously wanted and justly deserved.

Cross pinched the ridge of his nose, sensing another incoming round of migraines. He needed a smoke, and he needed one soon; nicotine patches really weren't cutting it.

He had barely even rung the doorbell before the door opened, revealing the tired-looking bandana-and-eye-patch-wearing university student who was also his first known and grudgingly acknowledged offspring.

The redhead stared blankly at him for a moment, his single visible green eye narrowing slightly for a brief moment before it slid downwards to rest upon the form of Allen Walker, who returned the look with a great deal of apathy.

A grin began to form on the redhead's face, and Cross could already see the gears turning inside that strange head of his.

Oh well, he might as well get it over with and be on his way; Rome wouldn't wait for him forever, after all.

"Brat, meet your older brother, Lavi Bookman."

**- o0o -**

When Lavi Bookman had first descended on his doorstep with a court order in one hand and two boxes of pizza in the other, Cross had not really been sure as to what to make of him.

Upon spotting the court order, he had naturally assumed that the son – the one that he never knew that he had – had turned up to demand that Cross paid all the alimony that he obviously owed said brat's mother.

However, as it soon turned out, the brat had come for an entirely different reason, that reason being the fact that he had only recently turned eighteen and had managed to file a petition to have his biological father's name retrieved from the sealed adoption records.

The brat, who had gone by the name of Deak at the time, had simply tracked him down in order to ask a couple of things over a little bit of pizza. Those couple of things had consisted of a) a rough outline of his family history, b) a rough outline of his family's medical history, and c) a rough outline of what kind of person his mother had been.

A bit puzzled, Cross had actually attempted to give the brat just that, although in truth, he had very little information to give.

Anyhow, that had taken place nearly two months ago if memory served him right – it rarely did, but it seldom mattered whether it did or not – and since then, the newly renamed brat had taken up residence in some old man's house, juggling odd jobs with university studies.

Orphaned at the tender age of about two or three, Lavi Bookman had made a surprising career within the system of adoption and foster care, going through a total of forty-eight homes during a time span of about fourteen years before finally being taken in by the old man ‒ Bookman ‒ whose last name he had later adopted to go with his newly changed given name, Lavi.

Forty-nine homes.

Forty-nine name changes.

Forty-nine constructed identities.

Cross had snorted at this, finding it an absolutely amazing waste of time to change one's name like that. Brat number two could keep his adopted name for all that Cross cared. Besides, putting his own last name on that unthankful little brat would be like putting an inerasable stain on his family name; the brat was dirty after all, and his family name had already been tarnished enough, and seeing that he had not even had a hand in raising the kid in the first place, he really did not see the point of putting his name on him in order to pretend like he had actually contributed with more than a sperm.

Anyhow, speaking of the second brat who had turned up to darken his doorstep, Cross had to admit that he thoroughly enjoyed seeing the look of terror at the sight of the cheerful and somewhat mischievous grin on the face of said brat's newly introduced older brother.

Obviously sensing the danger, the brat then attempted another improvised escape attempt, only to be grabbed by the collar and shoved into the waiting arms of one seriously mischievous older brother, who nearly immediately dragged him inside and shut the door.

After all, Lavi Bookman had not gone through forty-eight homes in fourteen years for nothing; few people could bear the periodically hyperactive prankster for a period longer than six months.

They had no doubt consulted the same kind of head-shrinking psychiatrists that Cross had had the misfortune of encountering, and no doubt had they been told that they should give him time, give him time to adapt, give him time to get used to them, give him time to get attached, give him time to settle down... But let's face it; that was an absolutely worthless piece of advice, because obviously time had done that brat little good, just like it would never do the other brat any good whatsoever.

Lighting a cigarette, Cross' ears picked up a muffled cry of utter distress, but he paid it no heed.

He inhaled, experiencing the bliss of finally getting his morning nicotine, all whilst pointedly ignoring the sounds of the apparent grappling contest taking place on the other side of the door.

He exhaled some smoke before once again putting the cigarette back into his mouth, shoving his hands into his pockets, contemplatively.

The uproar within the house steadily grew more distant, indicating that someone had lost the grappling contest.

_It sure serves him right_, Cross internally decided, making his way back to the car.

**- o0o -**

Cross really did not like surprises, so suffice to say that he was positively _delighted_ when he had received a call from the school into which he had recently had his brat enrolled, telling him that said brat had been skipping out on lessons lately.

Apparently, said brat had sometimes used a bunch of lame excuses, excuses involving dentists or psychiatrists or even family emergencies.

In other words, it would suffice to say that Cross was quite pissed off when the headmaster's secretary rang him up and inquired about a lot of things to which he honestly did not possess very good answers at three in the afternoon, quite hung-over as he was.

After having downed a couple of painkillers, Cross had been forced to waste what little remained of his day off in order to find the brat. And find him he did, eventually, and he had found him sitting in the most obscure and most remote cemetery in town, talking to a gravestone of all things.

Having located the brat and having grabbed said brat by the collar and dragged said brat back to the car without being mistaken for a kidnapper, Cross drove home.

The brat sat in the backseat, arms crossed; sulking by the looks of it and glaring darkly at him if the rear mirror was to be believed. Honestly, if looks could kill then Cross had little doubt that he would have been stabbed, burned, impaled and electrocuted several times over, if not even burned at the stake.

Having made it back home, Cross sank into his favourite armchair and began contemplating life, enjoying a couple of glasses of wine and smoking cigarettes between them, trying to calm his already frayed nerves.

Allen passed by him once or twice on his way to the kitchen, stopping only briefly to glare or frown openly before once again disappearing back into his room.

Cross paid him little or no attention, caught up in his thoughts as he was.

Brat gone now, for a while at the very least, Cross turned his attention back to the book that he had been studying intently for the last couple of minutes, reading it with a great deal of interest.

Gradually, a frown began to appear on his face, deepening as he went on reading.

Once he had reached the bottom of the fourteenth page, he seriously found himself considering giving those mind-shrinking psychiatrists a call after all.

Honestly. Teenagers; Cross seriously wished they had come with an instruction manual.

**- o0o -**

Silver-grey eyes narrowed briefly at the sight of the man smoking; of the man drowning his sorrows.

The teen turned, slamming the door shut behind him. Leaning his back towards it, he sunk down to the floor, pulling up his knees a bit so that he could use them to support his notebook as he wrote in it, recording his thoughts; trying to make things make sense again.

"_Give him time… give him time to adapt, time to get used to his new role. It'll all work out in the end, dear."_

He snorted, resuming his writing.

_That bastard doesn't need time; he needs to be pushed off of a bridge._

**- o0o -**

"Why are you skipping out on classes, brat?"

Allen looked up, finding himself once more under the rare scrutiny of the irresponsible alcoholic of a biological father as the latter attempted – and quite obviously _failed_ – to portray the image of a responsible and concerned guardian, seemingly trying to figure out just how fucked up in the head he was.

Of all the things that Allen positively loathed, being pitied only came in second place. What he truly loathed were people actually going as far as to pretend that they actually gave a shit about his wellbeing; that they actually cared for him beyond the point which concerned money.

Regardless of whether it was governmental benefits or something else, Allen could very much tell that Cross had only accepted his 'parental responsibility' due to the fact that it had been monetarily beneficial for him.

Besides, the man was a seriously screwed-up alcoholic who looked ready to screw anything even remotely feminine with a nice-looking face and a slim-looking pair of legs; a man like that should not be anyone's guardian, as it was bloody self-evident that the man could take proper care of a minor as little as he could take proper care of himself.

And, judging from the fact that Allen had found the man stoned out of his mind on the floor for the third time in a month only a couple of days prior, he believed that he had every right to pass judgement.

It was simply too bad that those people at the social services believed that he was a seriously disturbed and possibly delusional attention-seeking little brat whose words should not be taken seriously.

He sighed, continuing to pen things down.

The steadily growing pile of homework next to his makeshift bed was stubbornly ignored in favour of his notebook, because Allen knew that he was probably going to fail his GCSE exams anyhow, just as he knew that he was unlikely to pursue a career wherein GSCEs were required, and as such, he really did not see much point in making the effort.

Speaking of troublesome things…

Silver-grey eyes fell on the flyer; it had fallen out of his bag earlier when he had opened it to retrieve his most prized possession. He found himself eyeing it in distaste.

It was one of those stupid handouts that his overly concerned English teacher had forced upon him, as the woman seemed to be under the impression that a little extracurricular activity in the form of sports or drama would no doubt work its magic in clearing his minds of all those dark sorrowful thoughts that no doubt inhabited it.

With all due honesty, Allen wanted little more than to go ahead and shove them ‒ the handouts; not the thoughts ‒ down her throat; if he had wanted to be distracted, or if he had actually wanted to go the extra mile for some points in order to heighten his chances of getting into a decent university, then he would no doubt have done so a long time ago. In truth however, he was by no means interested in doing anything beyond maybe turning up for class to stare out of the window all day.

It was his time to spend; his life to live. He decided what to make of it, period. After all, life was far too short to be wasted within the walls of confinement belonging to the prisonlike educational facility that was part of the institution otherwise known as secondary school.

Obviously, Allen did not like his new school, and he actually had quite a few good reasons to loathe the place. In a fit of boredom, he had even compiled a growing list featuring some of the things about the place that made his skin crawl.

First of all, due to him being 'the new kid', people absolutely refused to leave him alone even when he flat out told them to fuck off (‒ receiving a verbal warning for it).

Apparently, in being new and mildly exotic (since the school did not get a white-haired fifteen-year-old transfer student with scars and a 'tragic' life story each and every day), some people had apparently decided that they needed to uncover all his secrets or whatever, or that they needed to take him down a notch or two for acting conceitedly or something along those lines.

This was – mildly put – quite annoying, but for one reason or the other, Allen found himself positively craving a decent fight so that he could beat all those snotty-nosed brats up and possibly even get himself expelled for the trouble.

However, seeing to the fact that he was looked upon with pity by a majority of not only the teachers but also of the remaining personnel, he would probably just receive a written warning oand get suspended for a week or so; a week that he would no doubt be forced to spend in another place of confinement – Cross' stinking and cramped apartment – under the close watch of the Devil himself.

In truth, it was the latter alternative – the prospect of him being forced to spend even more time than absolutely necessary in the abode of his current guardian – that truly kept him in line.

Second of all…

He looked up, his eyes once again zeroing in on the piece of paper on the floor. Then, slowly, he shifted, reaching for it.

In the choice between Cross and his classmates – however repulsive or annoying as a company they might have seemed – Allen knew which he preferred, though he only grudgingly admitted it.

He scrunched up the paper, crushing it in his hands.

**- o0o -**

As a general rule, Cross absolutely abhorred the thought of having to spend money and time on projects that were doomed to the extent that investing in them to keep them afloat for a bit longer seemed futile; he had done numerous bad investments in the past, and he held little doubt of the fact that investing much time, effort and money in the asocial scoundrel that was his biological offspring would be one of these bad or at least utterly pointless investments. The odds that he would actually get anything out of it in the end were, after all, creeping rather close to being nonexistent.

Hence, Cross saw little reason to become more physically invested in the kid than he absolutely had to, and he saw even less of a reason to become emotionally invested in said kid's future. Said kid would no doubt disappear out the door and never come back the very moment he turned eighteen, and whilst the latter was by no means such a bad thing in Cross' world, it did provide quite an argument in favour of his general philosophy of non-involvement.

Besides, that Lavi brat did not seem to have minded it terribly and Cross doubted that Allen would have much against it either, seeing that the kid hated him with a passion and likely harboured a wish for him to die prematurely in some elaborate and painful way.

Simply put, Cross had reached the conclusion that getting involved with the brat any further than was absolutely necessary would be a bad decision on his part.

Having taken the brat in had from the very start been a bad decision, but seeing to the fact that he needed the money, there was little that he could do about it.

Still, considering the fact that the kid's existence in itself was bad news to him, Cross did have his moments where he wondered if he should not have trusted his gut instinct and dumped the kid back onto social services, opting to sell one of his kidneys or something in order to make up for the loss of income.

Then again, seeing to the fact that he had been quite wild in his youth and as such had trashed several of his organs to such an extent that few would wish for him to donate anything, maybe this – taking the kid in order to receive the money from his deceased psychotic ex-spouse – had been the only correct decision to make, even if it had been a bad one.

Sighing, Cross took another sip out of the glass in his hand as he directed his eyes towards the dusty picture frame up on the shelf.

Within it lay what little remained of the life that he had had in his youth; a life that he would rather have forgotten all about. It had been a drifting life where responsibilities were few and things were far less complicated, where the future had been the least of his concerns as the present had been his all.

He still found himself grieving the loss of his bike; it had been such a fine piece of machinery, but it had been far beyond saving.

His body still held the scars from that fateful night, recording it as an eternal reminder of the date when the dream ended and his descent into reality began.

That night had been a bad decision as well, but it would all have ended well if he had been the one to perish in the crash.

Instead, another had paid for his fateful mistake and that was what had made all the difference.

Since then, he had gradually gotten rid of all that remained of that night; he had sold what he could sell and burned the rest, among them the photographs that had depicted the moments which had led up to that fateful night. The photograph on the shelf was the only one that he had kept, having been unable to part from it.

After all these years, her smile still haunted him.

Afterwards, once things had calmed down and once only scars remained of the incident, he had taken to the bottle in order to forget all about that smile and in order to forget all about the woman behind it, but it had been stupid of him to believe that strong alcoholic beverages would be able to drown the wretched thing otherwise known as his conscience. Her smile haunted him even more then, at times when he was intoxicated enough not to care much about details, and before long, he saw it in a lot of women.

Eventually however, her mirage had faded, and in her place were these other women, women who were certainly beautiful in their own right but who still did not hold a candle to that woman when it all came down to it.

Now that he thought about it, perhaps the reason as to why he had become stuck on the white-haired brat's mother was due to the eerie outward resemblance to that woman.

It was probably the eyes that had fooled him; they had shared the same beautiful eyes, grey like clouds yet sparkling all the same; the same eyes that now glared at him on occasion ‒ belonging to the brat that he had accidentally fathered ‒ either surprisingly empty or burning with a kind of loathing. Those eyes; they accused him still. Even after all those years, they were still looking at him, serving as an eternal reminder of that day.

He sighed again, tearing his eyes away from the photograph. Instead, they found themselves wandering to the clock as it counted the minutes in silence.

The brat was late again, for the umpteenth time in these last couple of weeks; Cross had not bothered counting the times, but even he was able to tell that the brat turned up late at least a couple of times a week lately, looking tired.

Honestly, considering the fact that he was supposed to act like a responsible adult and all, Cross supposed that he should at least act slightly concerned about the kid and make an inquiry about said kid's whereabouts during those hours that he evidently did not have any classes.

Then again, if he asked the brat directly, then he would no doubt be facing those cold eyes and have a door slammed in his face faster than he would be able to finish his sentence.

As such, Cross was considering the few alternative options that still remained open.

For one thing, seeing to the fact that he could not afford having a private detective stalk the kid and was far too lazy to do it himself, Cross supposed that he needed a consultant; someone who knew the kid and what went on in said kid's head better than anyone.

After a brief moment, his thoughts settled upon Lavi, but he nearly immediately shrugged it off, seeing that the brat would rather consult with gravestones than with his newly introduced half-brother.

Then again, speaking of inanimate objects…

To be completely honest, Cross would rather not have delved any deeper into said kid's mind than he absolutely had to. However, as a supposedly responsible parent, he supposed he had to make sure the kid had not gotten himself involved with some secret crime syndicate, begun dealing or taking drugs or begun selling himself on the street for pocket money or otherwise gotten involved in the kind of activities that Cross himself would imagine the youth of today could possibly encounter either at or outside of school.

Having made up his mind, he downed what little had still remained in his glass.

He had given the kid enough time; it was high time for an intervention.

**- o0o -**

"_Where the Hell have you been lately, brat?"_

**- o0o -**

Allen turned, honestly surprised by the sudden enquiry, and even more so by the unexpected welcoming committee waiting for him at the door as he arrived back from a drama session which had been dragging on forever. He stared impassively at Cross where he sat, flipping through something and reading it with a dull kind of interest.

Was this another one of the Bastard's rhetorical questions again?

"Why the Hell would you give a damn?" he said, slamming the door shut behind him. "Bastard."

"If anyone is a bastard here, then that person is you," Cross scoffed, eyeing him with obvious distaste.

Having decided that the Bastard did not deserve an answer from him, Allen instead focused on the thing – the utterly and dreadfully familiar thing – that lay in the man's slimy hands. Almost immediately, his grave suspicions were confirmed and he blanched briefly before rapidly reddening as he was suddenly overcome by righteous anger.

Within moments, he had sprung forth, ripping the notebook from the man's despicable hands. "You had no right to read that!"

Cross Marian – that _Bastard_ – stared coolly at him in response. "You left me no other choice," he said, not sounding sorry in the least for his blatant violation of Allen's privacy. "I need to know what the fuck you're up to… and seeing that you refuse to tell me anything, I was forced to rely on other sources…"

Allen just stared at him, fully dumbfounded and speechless for several moments.

Then, his emotions gradually cooled down, allowing indifference to seep up in their place.

He turned, and in that very second, he had made his decision.

**- o0o -**

Even fifteen minutes after that, he was still running through the night, barefoot. His feet should have been killing him by then, but they had gone numb pretty soon after he had dashed off.

He gradually slowed down a bit, whipping his head around to check whether or not Cross was still after him, but in the absence of the creep, Allen allowed himself a bleak smile.

Barefoot or not, he was free.

Given the chance, he would rather stay that way.

**- o0o -**

In the apartment that he had just vacated, Cross Marian sat back down, pinching the ridge of his nose, processing that which had just taken place and forming distinct opinions about it.

On a positive note, he reasoned that the kid was now out of his hair.

On a negative note, said kid had just run away.

Sighing, Cross reached for the bottle but then withdrew it; he was getting way too old for this.

Hauling out his phone, he pressed speed-dial.

After a couple of rings, someone picked up on the other end, uttering a tired _"Hello?"_.

Cutting to the chase, Cross opened his mouth to speak.

For several moments, he was only met by silence from the other end before the recipient finally answered in a way that clearly betrayed his disbelief. _"You did what?!" _

The one on the other end proceeded to berate him on his actions, asking him if he was insane and insisting that the basic idea of snooping around in other people's belongings was to do so without their knowledge; saying that he ought to have asked directly otherwise.

Cross snorted in response. "And gotten a door slammed in my face?"

"_Yeah, well at least it's better than having him run away, isn't it?!" _the one on the other end retorted, exasperated. _"Honestly…"_

There was a beat of silence, and then a question. _"How long ago was it?"_

Cross looked up at the clock, checking the time before answering. "About forty-five minutes ago."

"_Then why are you not out looking?" _was the exasperated response that he got, along with a _"Doesn't he have a phone or anything?"_

"Do I look like I'm made out of money or something?" Cross scoffed.

A sigh was heard from the other end. _"You don't have any idea where he might've gone?_ _To a friend's place perhaps?"_

Cross scratched his head; he couldn't really say he did. "Not really."

"_No idea whatsoever?"_

"Nope."

"_Not even the slightest speculation?"_

Cross paused, thinking. "Well… he does like to hang out at that graveyard…"

"_Graveyard? Which one?"_

"St. Whatever. Grey's, maybe."

"_St. Grey's Churchyard?"_

"Yeah, that one."

There was another sigh from the other end. _"I'll go and have a look, but honestly Cross, he's your kid and not mine and underage to the boot, so do at least pretend to take proper care of him. He's been through a lot."_

Cross found himself scoffing at that. "Haven't we all?"

**- o0o -**


	2. Chapter II

_Last edited on August 23__th__ 2014. Contains parts of chapters 3-4 out of CtL._

**- o0o -**

**Chapter II:**

_**In which a self-proclaimed amateur creep (preferring the term eccentric) takes the stage, Lavi worries, and a mildly concussed and decidedly confused Allen is complimented on his morbid imagination.**_

_**In which negotiations take place, flashbacks are had, pizza is served and social practices are discussed.**_

_**In which sanity is questioned on more than one occasion.**_

**- o0o -**

Wheezing, Allen slowed to an eventual halt, his mind finally beginning to catch up on one of the more prominent flaws to his badly planned and thoroughly improvised escape plan.

First of all, he probably should have sacrificed some of his head start and put a pair of proper shoes on before dashing off. Then again, if he had paused back then, even for a slight moment, then he probably wouldn't have gone for such a crazy escape opportunity in the first place.

Still, barefoot and aching or not, he was liberated. In addition, he was now kind of a runaway and kind of homeless at the same time, but not really. Actually, he wasn't all too sure about who and what he was anymore.

He sighed, focused on his breathing – breathe in, breathe out – and then looked up just as the first few drops of rain impacted on his head. Seconds later, it was already pouring.

Fully convinced that the guy upstairs – otherwise known as God – hated him in one way or the other, Allen took off in a jog, heading towards a nearby bus stop; having a roof over it, he supposed that it would suffice as a temporary shelter, at least until the rain let up. Besides, if he waited long enough, a bus might even turn up to take him even further away from this godforsaken city. Considering his general luck in life however, such a scenario seemed rather unlikely.

Finally having a roof over his head, Allen collapsed onto the cold bench that the shelter offered and set about looking through his pockets and backpack in order to determine what exactly he had to work with.

His half-drenched English assignment gave a somewhat pitiful impression when he pulled it out and he was halfway ready to throw it away before stopping himself, reconsidering it and then shoving the bundle of paper back into his backpack, reasoning that he might actually be able to use it as fuel for fire once it dried up. Besides, it wasn't like he was going to need to turn in his homework anyhow; runaways didn't go to school.

Once he had finished his initial evaluation of his situation, Allen tilted his head back, closing his eyes. He was tired, really tired; tired of Cross, tired of school, tried of authorities, tired of society, tired of running. He sighed again before opening his eyes, looking at the rain as it impacted hard on the pavement.

"Say, Mana…" he began quietly, though truth to be told, he might as well have been screaming, seeing that it wouldn't have made a shred of difference as there was no one presently within earshot. "Would you mind terribly if I went to accidentally throw myself in front of a bus so that I could see you sooner?"

There was no answer.

The rain just continued pouring.

**- o0o -**

To Allen, it seemed as though only seconds had passed when his eyes blinked back open.

For a brief moment, he found himself wondering what had woken him up.

His answer arrived only seconds later when the driver of a nearby car sounded their horn, startling him.

Mildly disoriented but wide awake, he turned his head, seeking the source of it only to find that it had originated from right behind him.

A sleek-looking black car had pulled up, and the driver lowered one of their windows, peering out at him where he sat, shivering slightly now that awareness had returned to him.

Allen wondered whether or not he ought to be afraid and make a run for it, but he was still too tired to make such a sudden decision.

A pair of sunglasses was pushed down a bit – _"Who even wears sunglasses at night?"_ Allen quietly wondered – and a pair of amber-coloured eyes soon met with his, eyeing him in quiet contemplation for a while before the driver finally opened his mouth to address him. "Need a lift?"

Allen blinked, momentarily surprised, and then narrowed his eyes. "You know," he said, tilting his head slightly to the side. "If you're looking for someone to kidnap then try elsewhere. I'm not worth much."

That earned him a confused look that was followed by clear amusement as the driver bent down for something.

Moments later, the driver straightened back up, this time with a cigarette in his mouth which he lit before once again turning his eyes in Allen's direction, eyeing him somewhat lazily.

"You know," the driver then proceeded. "I don't make a habit out of kidnapping random people off the street, but I might decide to make an exception if you put it like that."

Allen eyed him incredulously for a moment, actually getting up and taking a few steps in the other direction; wary. "You know," he then said, keeping his distance even if it meant getting himself more wet as rain was still pouring down from above. "I might be a serial killer or an escaped mental patient or something."

That earned him a snicker, and the driver then proceeded to turn off the engine and open the door.

Allen instinctively backed another step.

"You know," the driver said as he approached, taking a step forward each time Allen took a step back. "Oddly enough, you don't look the part."

"Looks can be deceiving," Allen managed all whilst continuing to keep an eye on the stranger's movements, processing the fact that he wouldn't be able to step back much more before hitting a wall. "I could be plotting to kill you right now."

"You know…" The stranger advanced another step, and Allen could feel his back brush up against the wall. "That poker face of yours could need some work."

Back flat up against the wall now, Allen's breathing hitched as fingertips ghosted along the side of his face, tracing the outline of the scar.

Normally, he would have startled violently; lashed out even.

Now however…

He slapped the offending limb away and took off running in the same breath, acting more out of instinct than in accordance to reason. Still, God decided to once again provide further proof of the fact that he did not like him one bit by making him slip and fall, causing him to hit his head on the sidewalk.

Head exploding into a temporary array of pain and dizziness, Allen sat up with some effort and momentarily failed to recall exactly who and what he had been running from just a few seconds prior.

It lasted only for a couple of seconds though, as it all came back to him when well-measured footsteps reached him.

Right, so he had been running from a suspected kidnapper – or possibly a rapist or a serial killer or something – and had slipped and hit his head on the pavement simply because God hated him and because he had not had enough sense to leave beforehand.

Sitting there, Allen found that he couldn't hear very well; that there was static all around. Or was it rain? He couldn't remember.

There was something sticky on his forehead too and it hurt a lot. Blood? Or just rainwater?

Before he was able to make much sense of it, something heavy dropped on top of him; a coat?

Despite the pain, he looked up in surprise and confusion at the amber-eyed stranger that crouched down before him in the pouring rain now clinging firmly to them both; clothes, faces, eyelashes, skin.

It all made for a very blurry outline.

Allen found himself wondering if he wasn't dead already.

An unmistakable smile crossed the other's features ‒ why? Had he spoken out loud? And why, why did it seem so awfully familiar?

Coat and all, he was pulled to his feet. He hardly got the chance to stand on them though; he hardly even managed it either, as he blacked out around the same time as his forehead collided with the other's front.

**- o0o -**

He awoke to an unfamiliar ceiling and in a moving car no less.

"You okay back there?"

He turned his eyes in direction of the voice, finding those amber-coloured eyes looking at him through the rear-view mirror before once again returning to the road and to the flow of traffic.

Allen just continued staring; his brain not quite having caught up with things.

"I thought that you might've gotten a major concussion or something, but you didn't, so consider yourself lucky," the amber-eyed man said, snorting in clear amusement. "I bet that you'll still have a pretty nasty headache and a bump on the back of your head though."

A potential kidnapper or not, the man was right about the headache.

Shifting his position where he lay sprawled across the backseat, Allen turned onto his side, hissing when a bunch of fireworks exploded in his head again.

Thankfully enough, they eventually subsided a bit and he forced himself to sit up, only then really noticing the heavy black coat laid out on top of him.

"So…" he finally said, wondering what exactly to say in this kind of situation. Reaching no obvious conclusions, he naturally opted for the first coherent thing that came to mind. "Curious question: Am I being kidnapped?"

"That depends entirely on you, I'd say," his presumed kidnapper stated, pausing briefly just as he slowed down before an intersection, waiting for the traffic lights. "Now that I know that your brains didn't get rattled too badly and that you're at least reasonably coherent, I'm going to give you two options."

The other looked at him through the rear-view mirror again. "One: I drop you off at the nearest hospital," the man began, shifting gears before speaking up once more. "Two: you come along back to my place so that we can get you patched up. Which would you prefer?"

"Why not drop me off right here?"

Those amber-coloured eyes shot him another look. "I presented you with two options; not three. Adding in a third would be cheating, Boy."

"Then how about this: Let me out."

A smirk presented itself in the rear-view mirror. "Then how about this: No."

Allen tried one of the backdoors.

It was locked.

He directed his eyes back to the driver, wishing that he could wipe the smirk off of the other's face, preferably using his fist. "Then how about this: Fuck off, Bastard."

The other's amusement stubbornly remained and undiminished at taht. "Such language, boy. Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"

Mother.

Allen ceased his attempts at unlocking the door, committing fully to scowling. "I'd rather tap-dance on top of her grave and yours too, given the chance."

"Hoh?" The look sent his way was decidedly amused. "Quite morbid, but nevertheless intriguing. Almost makes me wanna keep you."

"Almost?" A slightly hysterical giggle escaped him, mostly without his consent, earning him another look from his sort-of-maybe kidnapper. "Gonna kill me then?"

"And then what?" the other deadpanned. "Me keeping your severed head in a glass jar full of formaldehyde at the bottom of my fridge?"

"And the rest of it?"

That earned him another look, halfway between wry amusement and exasperation. "The rest of what?"

"The rest of my body." Allen leaned forward, realising that it was an incredibly stupid idea the pounding in his skull only grew worse. Still… "What would you do with it?"

"Who knows?" the other responded, shifting gears. "Got any particular requests?"

Despite his aching head, Allen actually considered this for a moment or two. "If you could refrain from raping me ‒ dead or alive ‒ that would be very much appreciated," he eventually decided, earning himself yet another pointed look.

"Not gonna beg for your own life?"

He slumped against the car door, head colliding softly with the window; tired. His head was hurting quite a bit as well, though he couldn't for the life of him remember why, which proved unnerving to say the very least, seeing that he was locked in the car with a potential serial killer headed who-knew-where and he was sure that he had known what had inflicted the headache mere moments prior. "Methinks that I don't really have all that much of a life to go back to anymore."

This probably earned him yet another look, but he didn't look in order to make sure as something else caught onto his fleeting attention.

"So you figure getting killed by me would be an easy way out?"

"What's wrong with wanting to take the easy way out?" Allen mumbled, watching as a patrol car drove by in the opposite direction, lights flaring and sirens blaring.

"Fair point," the other agreed as the flashing lights disappeared off into the rainy night.

Head still resting against the window, Allen found that he wasn't sure as to what to think. "That's all?" he finally deadpanned. "You're not going to deny it, lull me into a false sense of security and then have your merry way with me?"

"Nah, what's the point?" the other deadpanned in response, entering a roundabout and leaving through the third exit. "Besides, I'm not going to kill you."

"I'm not worth much," Allen countered. "Besides, I've already got a good look at your face, so…"

"So?"

Allen pushed himself away from the window, cradling his skull. "Earlier, you said that you don't make a habit out of kidnapping people off of the street…"

"Yeah?"

With some effort, Allen lifted his gaze, meeting the one that was levelled on him through the rear-view mirror. "So, why are you out here anyway if you weren't out looking for potential victims?"

"You've got a very lively imagination."

Allen narrowed his eyes at that. "You think that I'm crazy, don't you?"

"Do I?" the other asked somewhat rhetorically, but by no means devoid of amusement.

Allen found that his head hurt too much to deal with this. "Just drop me off at the hospital," he eventually decided, easing himself back down into a reclining position. "I think that I might be on the verge of a psychotic breakdown."

"Really?" The other sounded far more amused than worried. "Personally, I think that you just need a break."

From his present position, Allen found that he had an excellent view of the back of the driver's seat, but not of much else. However, he also found himself too tired and hurting to do much about it, presumably because the previous rush of adrenaline had run its course and had now sent him crashing right back down again.

"Break?" he repeated in tired disbelief. "But being kidnapped by a potential serial killer's kind of-"

The other reached out to shift gears again. "Not a serial killer."

"Then what?" Allen questioned from the backseat. "Professional creep?"

That earned him an actual snort. "Professional artist. Amateur creep," the one sitting at the wheel finally relayed, presumably also sending him a customary look through the rear-view mirror. "I happen to prefer _eccentric_ though."

Artist? _Art?_

Remaining in the same position, Allen considered it. "Do you make art out of human body parts?" he then asked.

"No," deadpanned the driver.

Allen tried again. "Do you make art out of animal parts?"

"Nope," the driver responded, popping the _p_ slightly.

In spite of his headache and the discomfort of partially drenched clothes still sticking to his skin, Allen considered the matter even further. "Do you use your own blood as ink for your-?"

He was interrupted about halfway.

"I use normal ink, normal paint, normal stuff, with extraordinary results, thank you very much."

The car slowed down before an intersection, and the artist-slash-possible-serial-killer actually turned around in his seat to level his strangely amber-coloured eyes at him where he lay, watching the man impassively on his side. "The name's Tyki Mikk, by the way."

Instead of offering up his own name in response, Allen offered up a flat "Never heard of you", which was in turn countered with a "Few people have", with a decidedly wry smirk accompanying it.

Silence reigned for the rest of the drive, and the previously heavy rain diminished to a slight drizzle.

Eventually, they arrived outside an apartment complex.

Even as the automatic car locks were disabled after Tyki had parked outside it, Allen remained where he was until Tyki opened the car door nearest to his head, peering down at him.

"You coming?"

A helping hand was proffered, but Allen swatted at it as he heaved himself up into a seated position. "Don't touch me."

The proffered hand was withdrawn, joining the other in a placating gesture. "Whatever you say."

Before long, he was out of the car, standing on the sidewalk next to it as Tyki pulled out his coat and folded it over his arm, locking the car before turning towards him anew. "Shall we?"

Allen gritted his teeth, barely suppressing the shiver that threatened to rock his body as the cool and decidedly humid night air came into contact with his skin, which was still damp in places from the clothes still sticking to it.

More than anything though, other than his head, it was his feet that bothered him; they might not have been completely bare seeing that he was still wearing socks, but with said socks soaked and cold and the feet contained within them in a similar condition with the addition of a prickling sensation that didn't exactly bode well for him, he had a reason to be worried.

When Tyki moved to enter the building he followed, trying to keep from stumbling over his own feet.

He did manage, but only just barely.

**- o0o -**

Lavi Bookman had never really cared much for attachments.

As a matter of fact, to him, attachments had often been more of a bad thing than a good thing.

Lavi himself had experienced troubles in developing attachments in his youth; constructed the way that he was, he had always sought reasons for why people acted in certain ways and as such he had wished to analyse these so called 'attachments' in order to figure out how on earth they developed and just how on earth they were retained.

Apparently, it was not entirely normal to think about things such as these. Or rather, as those head-shrinking people over at the social services put it: He had issues. Then again, considering the conditions of his childhood and the noticeable absence of his biological parents, most considered it a miracle that he had not turned out even worse than he had.

Either way, moving back to the whole subject of attachments, Lavi did have a genuine problem with forming them.

This problem was likely attributed to his lack of parents, or at least he suspected as much from what he had read in books; for whatever reason, children were supposed to get attached to their parents, but for whatever reason Lavi did not, at least not to the substitutes – the couples and families – who took him in. He did not develop any attachment to them, but they apparently developed one to him; this puzzled him, and as he often did when faced with a phenomenon that he did not fully comprehend, he set out to experiment – to test these odd bonds forming from 'attachments' – and to see just how much they could take.

More often than not, these 'bonds' were fragile enough to break soon after he had started testing them; people who had proclaimed their undying love and affection for him just days prior returned him to the orphanage like people brought a faulty product back to the store and had it exchanged for new one.

Oddly enough though, the setbacks that he experienced only served to intrigue him even further.

"Give him time," those mind-shrinking psychiatrists over at the social services had told the people who took him in. "Give him time to adapt, time to get used to you, time to get attached…"

But Lavi did not get attached, not even when his parental substitutes did; he continued to test the limitations of these strange things called 'attachments'.

Even though Lavi had come to privately refer to himself as an eternal orphan of sorts, it eventually turned out that he had not been as parentless as he had been brought up to believe.

First of all, his mother had actually been alive up until right before his third birthday.

Even so, his memories of her were few and muddled; people told him that she had been somewhat of an addict and that she had often left him to his own devices, leading to the social services taking him into custody.

From thereon, Lavi had begun his astounding career within both the system for adoption and the one for foster care – though mostly the latter – going through an impressive number of homes and accompanying name-changes until Bookman turned up to take him in.

Now that he actually thought about it, perhaps those name-changes on his part had been his own attempt at forming attachments, feebly believing that changing his name in order to match theirs would somehow give him the sense of belonging that he had always been lacking.

It would suffice to say that these efforts turned out to be futile on his part; perhaps it had given him an extra couple of days or weeks at a couple of families since they likely took it as a sign that he was really trying to fit in, but overall it had not changed much.

Even so, to his endless surprise, Lavi did find himself experiencing an odd sense of finality when he had moved in with the old man and turned in an application asking to have his name changed to Lavi Bookman.

At the same time ‒ or rather sometime before that ‒ he had petitioned to have his birth records released, and that was when he was in for the surprise of a lifetime.

As things turned out, Lavi's actual father – an elusive figure that no one had ever really talked about in his youth – turned out to be very much alive and more so very much oblivious to the fact that he even had a son in the first place.

As such, the man had looked appropriately surprised when Lavi had suddenly turned up on his doorstep, willing to exchange a few slices of pizza for information about the parents that he never got to know.

Truthfully, Lavi had not really known what to say when he had finally come face to face with the elusive Cross Marian whose sperm had supposedly brought him into existence.

The experience that he had with TV dramas and movies – it was not all that extensive – had told him that it would be an emotional moment for him, and that he would immediately find a missing piece of himself just by laying eyes on the man responsible for his conception.

Lavi had not expected much however, and that had probably been for the best seeing that he really did not feel any different about it.

To him, Cross Marian was just another human being, but since he had gone through all that trouble in order to find him and all, Lavi supposed he might as well ask the man about this family that he had never known – this family which had never been – and about his mother and what their relationship had really been like.

Brutally honest as he was, Cross had made no attempts whatsoever at sugar-coating the truth; others might have considered this rather insensitive of him, but Lavi had considered it refreshing and had left the man his cell phone number in case he would remember anything else.

Even so, as he went on juggling odd jobs and university studies, Lavi had not honestly expected to have much contact with his estranged father. After all, neither of them came across as family people; they were both loners in a way, too caught up in their own affairs to pay much attention to others.

As such, Lavi had been mightily surprised when his phone suddenly rang one day and was a call from none other than the elusive Cross Marian himself, asking him for a favour and not just any favour.

Obviously, receiving the news that he had a fifteen-year-old half-brother had come as somewhat of a shock to him, but considering things, Lavi strongly suspected that there had to be more of them out there. Still, as much of a shock as it might have been, it had not been a bad thing.

Strangely enough, Lavi had felt almost giddy at the thought of looking after the kid. Not even the apathetic look sent his way from his newly discovered half-brother Allen had been able to deter him; no, it had spurred him on instead.

Allen ‒ as Lavi soon discovered ‒ was a stray cat in the form of a human; he detested physical contact, occasionally lashed out and gave the general impression of wanting to run off and hide somewhere and would also, given the opportunity, likely have done so.

Still, however much of a feral beast his half-brother might transform into when feeling threatened, Lavi found that he did not mind it all that much. As a matter of fact, he saw it as an excellent challenge; he had never had a cat – not one of his own at least – but he had read a book about them way back and wanted to try if the same principles – somewhat modified, but still similar – could still be applied to humans, and who better to test it on than on his newly discovered feral stray of a half-brother.

Trust was a fragile thing and establishing it between two people when one of them was clearly programmed not to trust anyone was difficult.

Still, countless social experiments had taught Lavi patience and as such he really made no rush of it. Allen obviously had issues of his own that he needed to work out, and in the other's silence, Lavi had cheerfully prattled on about pretty much everything between heaven and earth while they had set about to play a game of chess.

During the extended weekend that Allen spent at his and Bookman's place, Lavi had learned a great deal about his new half-sibling.

First of all, whilst Allen was by no means an expert at playing chess – Lavi had only just taught it to him, for goodness sake – he was a killer at playing poker. Really, Lavi found it difficult to believe that he had ever lost so badly in his entire life, and although he had this nagging feeling that the other was cheating somehow, he could not really prove anything and as such, he had let the matter slide. Besides, it was not as though he could do much else after he had looked up at his brother's face and seen the faint smile adorning it.

Apparently, Allen Walker had quite fond memories of card games and of poker in particular, leading Lavi to speculate exactly what could have brought that on. Still, he knew better than to ask about it, seeing that Allen would talk when he felt like doing it and not a minute before that.

It had not taken long for Lavi to determine that Allen was quite different from him.

Unlike him ‒ who had never really been attached to anyone ‒ Allen had already grown attached and remained that way even after his former guardian had passed on. And, unlike Lavi, Allen had no plans of moving on; with all due certainty, he would rather jump from a bridge than accept Cross as his actual parent.

On the other hand, Cross was by no means making things any easier, but Lavi – caught up in his own little world as he was – had only realised the full extent of his father's virtual incompetence at handling Allen when he had received the man's call just after making it back home.

Really, what had he been thinking?

Lavi shook his head. At first, he had not even believed it and then he had openly questioned his estranged father's degree of sanity at having attempted something so reckless which had resulted in Allen running off into the night.

Really, the man had not even gone looking for him? Honestly…

Regardless of whatever feeble hopes Lavi might have had about finding Allen, his visit to St. Grey's Churchyard answered no questions and raised new ones instead.

Although he had done a quick but fairly thorough scan of the area, he had found no signs of Allen Walker, but curiously enough he had found another Walker there, buried six feet deep.

The grave of Mana Walker was fairly recent; just a few months old. It looked well taken care of, if the absence of weeds could count as any indication.

Looking at the headstone and at the inscriptions on it, Lavi could not help but envy the man whose life and death it had come to signify, wondering what kind of actions could possibly have earned such undying affection from his younger brother.

Lavi did not need the whole story in order to realise that the man known as Mana Walker had been very important to Allen. If anything, then Cross' claim that Allen kept on returning there over and over served as a clear indicator that whatever attachment Allen might have had to the man in life, that same attachment had carried on even in death.

It was an almost mindboggling thought and it actually inspired some degree of envy in him, seeing to the fact that he himself had yet to experience such a thing.

If anything, then Lavi supposed that he would be delighted the day that Bookman finally keeled over, since the man's extensive book collection and archive would no doubt pass onto him once that happened, and Lavi had always had an easier time attaching himself to books – to knowledge – than to people.

It was drizzling now as opposed to the previous downpour, but he was drenched anyway, in spite of wearing a supposedly waterproof jacket.

He would have to invest in a new one eventually; not now, but when he had the money to spare.

Lavi tore his eye from the headstone, once again scanning the darkened surroundings for signs of just anything; any clue that could pertain to what he was after.

There was none.

Traces were there, but they were old and faint rather than recent. The rain had already dealt with them for the most part. It had dealt with him too for that matter, leaving him feeling cold and strangely empty, but also frustrated; frustrated at the incompetence of others and of his own lack of success and of a great deal of other things as well.

"Allen, goddammit!" Lavi cursed under his breath. "Where are you now?"

**- o0o -**

"Hey, don't just stand there. You need to dry off properly."

Allen looked up, realising he had zoned out somewhere along the way. He let his eyes slide over the man's – Tyki Mikk's – apartment ‒ or hallway at least ‒ catching a glimpse of a fair number of half-finished paintings stashed against a nearby wall. "You really are an artist, huh?"

The man in question turned, his amber-coloured eyes zeroing in on the items in question. "Ah, you mean those," he snorted. "Yeah, sort of, but I can't say that I make a whole lot of money out of it."

Closing the door behind him, Allen grudgingly accepted the towel thrown his way and draped it across his shoulders whilst taking a better look at his surroundings, eyes narrowing slightly. "Your fancy apartment says otherwise," he deadpanned.

The other looked at him for a moment before snickering. "This fancy apartment was a gift from an overbearing uncle… or former guardian, I suppose," Tyki Mikk said, smiling wryly. "Apparently, me living as a homeless person would reflect badly onto the family."

_Family…_

Allen bit his lip, forcing his own memories back down under, where they belonged.

"So… sustenance?"

Allen looked up once more, coming face to face with his sort-of-kidnapper-sort-of-charitable-host. Before he was able to say anything though, his stomach had answered for him, and an involuntary blush spread across his features, and he willed his stomach to keep quiet.

Tyki Mikk did not seem to mind though, snickering under his breath as he headed off in direction of what Allen presumed to be the kitchen. "Oh right…" he heard the man say. "Want some painkillers as well?"

Painkillers?

Oh right, his minor head injury. "Yes, please."

He startled when Tyki suddenly stuck his head out from around the corner.

"Why do you look so stupidly surprised?" Allen finally asked, taking in the other's rather baffled facial expression.

The other blinked a couple of times, before stepping out from around the corner, crossing his arms and leaning his side against the wall, smirking. "Well," he said. "I believe that may just have been the first polite thing that I've heard you say without being sarcastic."

Charitable host or not, the glare that Allen shot him was anything but friendly.

The recipient did not seem to mind it all that much though, and even held up his hands in defeat. "Yeah, yeah, I get it. You want me to shut up, right? Well, make yourself at home… Go take a shower or something if you want. I'll go check if I have anything at home."

Allen kicked up an eyebrow in response as the other turned around and disappeared into the kitchen. Then, once Tyki Mikk was out of sight, Allen turned slightly, silver-grey eyes studying the apartment with renewed interest. "What am I doing?" he quietly wondered, and then staggered off in direction of the bathroom.

**- o0o -**

A couple of slices of micro-waved pizza greeted him when he stepped out of the bathroom with a sizeable towel firmly wrapped around him.

"Hoh… you're back already," Tyki Mikk greeted him from a bit further away where he sat in the couch with a laptop. "What's up?"

Allen once again found himself biting his lip, unsure as to how to proceed. Finally, he shifted slightly, averting his eyes. "Got any clothes that I could borrow? Mine are still kind of drenched…"

Well, drenched was not entirely accurate, but damp, yes.

He made an effort not to blush furiously when Tyki Mikk turned his head around, eyes sliding up and down his form where he stood. Allen felt vulnerable then, and even more so when the other closed his laptop and deposited it onto a nearby table, getting up.

Fear ‒ intermingling with paranoia ‒ made itself reminded and Allen nearly took a step back when the other brushed past him, entering another room – presumably the bedroom – only to emerge about a minute later, sending him a meaningful glance. "My clothes are probably a bit big for you, but you can go raid my closet if you like."

Allen frowned mildly in response.

**- o0o -**

"Why are you doing this?"

Tyki looked up in surprise at him then, taking in the oversized clothes that hung loosely around his frame, held in place by a belt. "Doing what?"

"Picking a complete stranger off of the street in order to have some random improvised slumber party," Allen supplied, folding his arms across his chest.

"Because I was bored?" Tyki Mikk helpfully supplied, putting away the laptop in favour of looking at him with a great deal of interest.

Allen's eyes narrowed. "You're clinically insane, aren't you?"

Tyki shrugged mildly in response. "I'm an artist; we're all kind of insane in a way."

"I guess," Allen finally yielded, flopping down onto the couch next to him, feeling strangely apathetic.

His earlier fear-mingled paranoia had been pushed aside in favour of apathy. Allen reasoned that even if his sort-of kidnapper turned out to be a serial killer or a possible rapist in disguise, the man was unlikely to let him leave the flat alive, as he already knew enough to possibly incriminate the other.

Strangely enough though, Allen now found himself entering a state of near-relaxation in the man's presence. Then again, that could possibly be blamed on the fact that he was completely knackered; caring too much about his current predicament would simply have taken too much energy.

"But…" Tyki continued, watching him in amusement. "Since you were out in this kind of weather barefoot, I wouldn't really call you sane either."

Allen sighed, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. "You've got a point."

"So, what happened to your shoes?"

"Left them." Allen didn't even bother opening his eyes. "Didn't have time to put 'em on."

"Sounds like you were in a hurry."

He had been, but he probably would not have needed to be.

After all, as things seemed, the Bastard had not bothered with the task of chasing him, which was both reassuring and mildly annoying for some reason.

"It was a split second decision," he finally relayed. "I wasn't really thinking."

And it had landed him into what ought to be the strangest situation ever, and it was about to become even stranger.

"Need me to have a look at your feet?"

Allen opened his eyes and tipped his head forward, sending off a glare into the man's general direction.

"Allow me to rephrase that…" Tyki Mikk said, getting to his feet. "Want me to have a look?"

**- o0o -**

He remained in the couch, but had turned around so that he was lying in it, resting on his stomach with his head resting sideways on a pillow.

Tyki Mikk had his feet up into his lap, dabbing the soles of them with some sort of antiseptic. Whatever it was, it stung like Hell and Allen put a great deal of effort not to cringe.

He was feeling annoyingly vulnerable again, lying that way with his back facing 'the enemy'. Even so, he was too tired to do anything about it.

"A-ah. This ought to hurt in the morning," his self-appointed nurse announced.

Allen said nothing, snorting inwardly; as though he had not known that already, seeing that he was already starting to experience the effects of it.

"No really…" Tyki Mikk intoned. "I don't think that you should attempt to walk on them for at least a couple of days, but I can hardly call myself an expert."

"I think I'll live," Allen muttered in response, shifting slightly.

"I'm not questioning your ability to live," Tyki Mikk responded, putting the antiseptics aside. "I'm questioning your ability to walk."

Allen snorted. "Why would you care?"

"Who says I do?" Tyki Mikk shot back without missing a beat. "I was merely pointing out facts."

"Besides," the man continued as Allen retained his silence. "If you're running away then you need to be able to run, don't you think?"

The teen tensed noticeably. "What makes you think that I'm-?"

"Oh, but you are," Tyki said, giving him no time to make his denial. "I've seen enough runaways to recognise one when I see one. I believe it's the eyes…"

A sigh escaped him and he slumped back into his previous position. "If you already knew that much, why didn't you take me to the police?"

"Why would I?" Tyki responded with a mild shrug. "It isn't like you asked me to take you there or anything."

Allen turned. "Then why…?"

"I was bored," the other insisted, letting go off his feet now that they had been bandaged properly. "Believe it or not, but boredom is sufficient as a motivator for me to do stuff that other people would consider reckless."

Allen said nothing, retracting his limbs so that he could curl up into a seated position, continuing to watch the man with wary eyes.

"So…" Tyki Mikk got up, waltzing off in direction of the kitchen. "Your choice is limited to water and vodka. Which one would you like?"

"Water," he swiftly responded, feeling sick all of a sudden. "I can't handle alcohol."

"Okay, one last question," Tyki stuck his head out again. "Do you know how to play poker?"

Allen hesitated, wondering. "I guess."

The head had disappeared once more, but a low whistle was heard. "Great. Looks like there might still be some hope for you after all."

Allen blinked, silently wondering what the Hell was going on.

"By the way, mind if I smoke?" he heard Tyki ask from the kitchen.

"Yes," he snapped, catching a "Figures" from the other room.

He pulled his limbs closer to himself, wondering why the man had felt the need to ask for permission; it was his apartment, wasn't it?

Then again, the guy was clearly insane, so such a thing ought to be expected.

Then again, Allen himself did not feel all too sane in that moment either now that he thought about it.

'_Honestly… what on Earth am I doing?'_ was his last coherent thought before crashing.

**- o0o -**


	3. Chapter III

_Last edited on August 23__th__ 2014. Contains parts of chapters 4-6 out of CtL._

**- o0o -**

**Chapter III:**

_**In which a whole lot of people are feeling like crap.**_

_**In which tragic background stories are unlocked.**_

_**In which reunions take place.**_

**- o0o -**

Bleak rays of morning light snuck in through a pair of slightly parted curtains, letting some light into an otherwise entirely darkened room.

Something shuffled about and soon enough, the curtains were pulled aside completely, allowing for the entrance of more light, and Allen – feeling like the living dead – rolled over onto his side, on the verge of groaning miserably as a vaguely familiar face greeted him at a close proximity.

"Good morning."

After a sluggish blink, during which his brain just about caught up with his surroundings, he startled and quite violently so, attempting to make an imminent escape.

Needless to say, with his luck or lack thereof taken into consideration, he stumbled. Before he was able to injure himself further however, he was caught and deposited back onto the couch where he had ended up spending the night.

"Wow, easy there, kid," Tyki admonished, eyeing him with seeming concern. "Wouldn't do to knock yourself out again, would it?"

Allen smiled apologetically, still somewhat dazed. For whichever reason, his head felt all funny. "Sorry… reflex."

"No problem." His sort-of abductor shrugged mildly, not looking offended in the least as he straightened and began heading towards the door. "The fridge's pretty empty by the way, so I'm heading off to the store for a bit," he said, pausing in his stride to look back at him. "Want anything?"

"That depends…" Allen found himself responding after a few moments of silence. "Want me to write you a list?"

"If you're coherent enough to write," the other responded, soon thereafter returning with a pen attached to a notepad, readily surrendering the items.

With a mild shrug, Allen set to work on the list, whilst Tyki stood leaning against the back of the couch, apparently in the middle of composing a text to someone, muttering something under his breath and then cursing as someone apparently called mid-text, catching a glimpse of the number at the display before cursing some more.

Suddenly finding himself very interested with it all, Allen abandoned the work on the list in favour of watching as Tyki took what appeared to be a calming breath before taking the call, expression turning deadpan save for a slight frown as Tyki reached up to pinch the ridge of his nose, looking very much like something or someone was doing their utmost in order to contribute to his headache.

"Honestly…" Tyki began, screwing his eyes closed whilst keeping his voice carefully controlled. "Which part of around noon eludes you lot? Some people actually have lives outside of family, yeah?"

Allen was somewhat disappointed to learn that he couldn't quite hear what was being said on the other end. However, Tyki's own end made the conversation worth listening in on.

"Yeah, something did come up. No, that's not just an excuse. No, it wasn't because I was hung over. No, I'm not hung over right now. No, you don't need to send for a cab to come and pick me up."

And so it continued back and forth, before Tyki ended the call with an exasperated look and another _"Honestly"_. He then proceeded to finally take note of Allen, who had been watching the rather one-sided exchange for a while now, and kicked up an eyebrow in response.

Opting not to ask about it, Allen simply handed him the list.

Tyki took it and read it, and in doing that, his eyebrow initially lowered and then climbed right back up again. "Really?" he asked, levelling his eyes upon Allen where he sat, staring right back at him.

"Really."

"No, _really_?"

"_Really_."

Tyki directed his attention back towards the list, frowning down at it.

"I'll get what I can of it down at the supermarket." He shrugged mildly, folded it and put it into his pocket as he headed for the door, announcing that "The rest will have to wait".

Pen still in hand, a decidedly puzzled Allen watched him go.

**- o0o -**

Lavi Bookman woke up feeling disoriented, looking up at a ceiling which looked disturbingly familiar.

It took almost half a minute before he was finally able to conclude that it was the one in his room back at the Old Man's place, which proved a tad worrying to say the very least.

Sitting up suddenly, he nearly immediately regretted his decision as his sight doubled briefly before tilting dangerously to one side, before he was able to catch and carefully lower himself back onto the mattress.

Something nagged at him though ‒ pulling at his senses ‒ but there was no clarity; everything was just too fuzzy. _What…?_

He blinked several times, looking back up at the ceiling.

Then, all of a sudden, realisation struck along with memories accompanying it.

Cross Marian's phone call, his half-brother having gone missing, him going out into the rainy night to look for him, St. Grey's Churchyard…

The headstone flashed before his inner eye and he nearly retched, suddenly feeling sick to his stomach.

It was a foreign emotion, similar to ones that he had experienced when drunk.

Heaving a sigh, he forced himself to calm down; forced himself to remain in control of himself, even though his world appeared to be spinning quite a bit.

Apparently ‒ as he had already taken note of somewhere deep within ‒ it had been a rather stupid idea on his part not to change out of his drenched attire after having relocated indoors after a futile search effort.

Inwardly, he found himself cursing his own carelessness.

Soon enough, he got even more to curse about when his cell phone suddenly rang and he scrambled for it, taking the call directly without pausing to check who the caller was; he really should not have done that. "Ehm… hi?"

"My shift started half an hour ago? Oh… sorry, I'll be up in a bit… No, I'm not hung-over… Yes, yes, I can work. Give me fifteen minutes and I'll be right down. An hour? Okay, I'll see you then."

With a sigh, he collapsed back onto the mattress, staring up at the ceiling. "I sure damn hope that I restocked my drug supply…"

**- o0o -**

"Mr. Marian, would you happen to be expecting some vital life-or-death phone call or do you keep checking your phone for no particular reason? We're in the middle of an important meeting here."

Slouched in his chair as he was, Cross arched an eyebrow at his makeshift employer before lazily pocketing the device as said employer returned to his presentation or whatever it was.

Truth to be told, Cross wasn't really paying all that much attention, but at least he directed his eyes towards the PowerPoint and pretended to take in at least some part of what it was all about, even though he was only pretending, truth to be told.

There had not been any word as of yet from the Bookman brat in regards to that other brat.

Cross wondered briefly whether or not he ought to start getting worried, but he shrugged it off after some additional consideration; the brat was bound to turn up sooner or later anyway, whether it was in a homeless shelter or in a ditch somewhere out in the countryside.

Shrugging inwardly, Cross decided that there really was not much that he could do about it, seeing to the fact that he had already exhausted whatever knowledge that he might have had regarding his runaway ward's whereabouts and the leads that he had offered the Bookman brat had likely turned up with nothing as well.

Obviously though, if the brat would continue to play truant in the future, school and other authorities would likely come prying and Cross really did not need that.

As such, he inwardly resolved that he would look into the matter himself later on, once the drag of a meeting had been dealt with.

Caught up in his thoughts as he was, he nearly missed out on the discreet vibrations in his pocket.

Getting up, he excused himself for a short break to have a smoke.

However, instead of heading outdoors to do just that, he stopped just a few metres away from the meeting room, fishing the still ringing phone out of his pocket.

The number was withheld.

He narrowed his eyes at it, taking the call and then ending it.

**- o0o -**

There were times when Allen found himself seriously questioning his own sanity, and considering the fact that he on a fairly regular basis found himself conversing with inanimate objects and constructs of his own imagination, that was saying something.

This was one of those times, Allen realised as he sat up in the couch and found himself staring impassively at his backpack where it lay discarded on the floor, halfway hidden beneath the coffee table.

He bent over, reaching out and finally retrieving it, pulling it up onto the couch where he was seated.

Rummaging through it, Allen inspected the things that he had at hand, confirming that he had no more and no less than when he had initially set out, which was both a good and a bad thing.

Chewing his lip, his eyes darted around the apartment.

Tyki was still out somewhere, meaning that this would be the opportune moment for him to make a run for it. Allen sincerely doubted that he would get a better chance than this, but he still found himself hesitating.

Up until that point, his sort-of abductor had been nothing less than a charitable host and had catered him with food, clothing and a place to stay, and if asked, Allen supposed that the guy would even supply him with money.

It was all strange – too strange, really; Tyki was way too friendly and way too helpful, and Allen knew there had to be a catch somewhere. Because obviously, there was always a catch.

Truth to be told, he was positively terrified of what Tyki could possibly come to demand of him once the man's interest in him finally waned. Really, Allen knew that he should get the Hell away before then and that he ought to put a nice chunk of distance between them, ensuring that they would never cross paths again.

Yet, he found himself hesitating.

After another couple of minutes' worth of contemplation, he finally swung his legs over the edge of the couch.

Bandaged feet impacting on the parquet flooring, he immediately found himself holding back a pained hiss but managed to steel himself. He forced himself to stand up and remain in that position, swaying slightly where he stood as the pain ran like reverse lightning rods through his legs.

Tears stung in his eyes, but he forced them back, reasoning that he was pathetic enough already and did not need to add a pair of puffy red eyes to his general image.

He made a quick trip to the bathroom before staggering back to the couch, and letting out a breath that he had not known himself to be holding, Allen allowed himself to collapse back into the piece of furniture behind him.

His escape could wait. It could be put off for a little longer; he needed to prepare first and he needed to get his hands on some decent supplies before re-entering the real world.

Lying back against the pillows, Allen reasoned that he just needed some more time to heal; to rest; to think.

He closed his eyes.

When he opened them, it was to the sound of Tyki unlocking the door.

Soon thereafter, a bag of something was put down on the coffee table next to him, and he stared at it in silence.

Tyki leaned in over him, and for once he did not flinch by pure reflex.

"Are you sure that you want to do this?" the amber-eyed man asked.

Allen rolled over onto his side and from there he got up into a seated position, shaking his head in an attempt to attain clarity.

"No?" his amused sort-of kidnapper asked, presenting him with another couple of painkillers and a glass of water.

Allen sighed, bringing a hand up to his head. He glanced tiredly at white locks as he kept twirling them around his fingertips. "I might as well."

**- o0o -**

"Say, I've been wondering… is white even your natural hair colour?"

Allen looked up at him in the mirror, watching the older man as he played around with locks of stark white hair.

Apparently, the look had not gone by unnoticed as Tyki paused in whatever he was doing and looked into the mirror, making note of Allen's expression.

"What?" The amber-eyed man gave his hair an experimental ruffle. "I'm curious."

"None of your business," Allen snapped, a slight growl hidden somewhere within his voice.

In exchange, he received a half-hearted slap on the head.

"Hey, there's no need to get all defensive on me, Boy," Tyki said, leaning in closer – uncomfortably close. It really made Allen wonder why the Hell he hadn't bolted yet. "It's unnecessary, 'coz I don't bite; not in this particular context at least."

Allen snorted, willing the slightly claustrophobic feelings away; willing himself to remain fully in control of himself. "TMI, Tyki, TMI."

"TLI, Boy, TLI," Tyki responded without missing a beat, withdrawing slightly as he put on rubber gloves and reached for the intended product. "By the way, would you mind giving me a name to call you? I've been mentally referring to you as 'Boy' for a while now, but it feels kind of weird…"

Allen looked up, just as the other began applying said product to his hair. "My real name?"

The other shrugged mildly, skilled fingers working their way through his hair and expertly massaging his skull. "If you want to; I don't really care all that much to be completely honest."

_Liar._

Allen closed his eyes, relaxing slightly as fingertips began working their way through tensions which had been there for years.

It was too up close ‒ too invasive ‒ but even so, Allen found himself longing for it just a bit.

If memory served him right, then he had barely been touched by anyone these last couple of weeks; months even. Stray hugs and manhandling aside, few had ever ventured close enough and those who had – those who he had also discouraged from doing so – had done so carefully, as if convinced that he was as brittle as a glass figurine or as aggressive as a feral cat, but he was not getting into that one.

He hated it; he hated it all, and he was partially disgusted at himself for longing for the human contact that he had shied away from for so long. He did not want to be touched; not by anyone. But why did it have to feel so damn good?

Eyes still closed, he sighed and finally gave in, partially at least. "Red."

"Red? Really?" Tyki commented, his surprise now perfectly evident. "It doesn't suit you at all."

Allen snorted. "Believe it or not, but I used to be a redhead."

"Seriously? What happened?"

He said nothing, retaining his silence. The other obviously expected some sort of answer from him; he knew that, just as he knew that he would not be able to keep on stalling forever.

"There was an accident," he finally said. "I watched my foster father die… and afterwards my hair began draining of its colour. Those headshrinkers said that it was due to trauma."

There was a brief pause before either of them spoke again, with Tyki making the first move. "How did he die?"

"Suicide," Allen responded, deadpan. "He jumped in front of a bus."

"Ouch," Tyki murmured, continuing his ministrations.

"Actually, you're the first person who's asked about it," Allen found himself saying, his tongue much looser now that certain obstacles had been overcome. "The others just settled for the police report… which ruled his cause of death as a hit-and-run accident... which it kind of was, except for the fact that he actually got up from the hit-and-run and then stepped out in front of a bus."

"Ouch," Tyki repeated, placing more emphasis on the word this time around. "Not on such good terms with your current guardian then, are you?"

Allen shrugged mildly in response. "I ran away in the middle of the night into the bloody rain without any realistic plans regarding my continued survival. That part is self-explanatory."

"Besides…" He paused slightly. "That bastard doesn't care about me as long as he gets whatever sum the government is paying him to have me."

The other shifted slightly, looking thoughtful. "Strangely enough, I can actually relate to that."

Allen wondered, but didn't ask.

**- o0o -**

Stepping out of the shower dressed in yet another pair of Tyki's oversized clothes, Allen dried his hair – his newly coloured hair – with a towel, feeling strangely unlike himself.

Stark whiteness had given way to blackness, and it itched but it was still worth it; he could barely even recognise himself anymore now with the hair and all, hence it was highly unlikely that anyone else would.

He looked up, spotting Tyki seated upon the couch, typing away on his laptop again.

On the coffee table stood two cups of steaming liquid – presumably tea – and Allen naturally found himself wandering over there, now that the painkillers had taken the edge off of the pain in his feet.

He claimed the empty spot, reaching for one of cups in question.

Paranoia immediately questioned the wisdom of his action, insisting that the guy could have dumped virtually any sort of drugs or poisons into it. Even so, he shoved paranoia aside and took the cup, bringing it to his lips for an experimental sniff.

Earl Grey; it was not entirely unexpected.

Still, it was too hot to be drunk at once so he put it back onto the table, curling up on the couch where he sat, looking at Tyki from out of the corner of his eye. It was as though he was waiting for something, although he was not entirely sure as to what he was waiting for; for the other shoe to drop perhaps?

Eventually, the answer to his silent question decided to appear of its own accord as Tyki spoke up, still typing away on his laptop.

"My mother married young," he said, his voice mostly neutral but harbouring a hint of wry amusement. "Probably in order to cover up that she was expecting me, since she was raised Catholic. She married her boyfriend fresh out of upper secondary, and a few months after that, I was born. So far so good, right?"

Allen's response consisted out of a slight nod, but apparently, it was perfectly satisfactory as the other then reached out and closed down the laptop, putting it aside. "Anyways, there was a catch."

Allen found himself eyeing the other with ill-concealed curiosity. "A catch?"

"Yep," Tyki responded, not in the least offended by his prying. "Turns out I wasn't his kid. I mean, he wasn't particularly clever, but when he figured things out, he got kind of pissed ‒ in more ways than one ‒ and that became the starting point of things."

"He was an alcoholic and a pretty violent one at that," Tyki went on to explain, shrugging mildly as he did so. "And… yeah, you get the picture."

Memories of his own mother – no, of _That Woman_ – flashed before Allen's eyes. She wasn't his mother; he had no mother. He picked up his teacup; his hands shaking slightly.

"Anyways," Tyki continued, taking a sip out of his own teacup. "My mother went into a depression and started taking happy pills, got into heavier drugs and later on also into prostitution in order to finance her addiction. My 'father' wasn't happy when he learnt of it, and he pushed her down a staircase. He told the police that it had been an accident, but I saw him do it. I tried to tell them, but they didn't believe me, buying into whatever crap that guy told them. He was an excellent actor; I'll give him that much, but one day he went too far…"

Allen's eyes widened slightly, and even more so when the other put his teacup back onto the table and snaked an arm around his shoulders, gently kneading one of them. "Hey, don't be so tense," Tyki admonished. "I didn't kill him. That came later."

The man shot him a somewhat amused glance as he tensed up.

"It was legal self-defence," Tyki continued, smiling bleakly. "He tried to drown me in the bathtub and I beat him senseless with a bath brush. I could've finished him off then, but I didn't, and I sort of regret it."

The hand on his shoulder tightened its grip.

"What's wrong? You got awfully pale all of a sudden."

"I'm fine." He wasn't fine. God no, he wasn't.

"You don't look fine," he heard Tyki say. The man sounded concerned.

The hand on his shoulder disappeared as the man shifted, getting up. It was back soon however, pushing him down. "Come on, lie down. Breathe."

He did, waiting for the sudden bout of dizziness to fade. Vaguely, he could sense Tyki hovering about. He should have been terrified, really. He wasn't.

If he was, then he did not feel it; the dizziness and the sudden nausea were in the way of it.

He forced himself to breathe; to calm down, waiting for the nausea to retreat.

He opened his eyes slowly, staring up at the ceiling. "How did he…?"

"How he died?" Tyki repeated, his voice echoing in from the kitchen. "Well… later one night when he was really drunk, he tried to shoot me, but his aim was off and I managed to stab him with a kitchen knife before blacking out from the bullet he'd put in my shoulder…"

"Ouch." Allen sat up slowly, cradling his head.

"Yeah, ouch," Tyki readily agreed, vaguely amused from the sounds of it. "So…" he continued, re-entering the room. "Do you wanna hear the rest of the story or are you gonna be sick on me?"

"I think I'm fine, really," Allen found himself saying, looking up at the man. "Go on."

He was rewarded with a smirk and he shifted, moving aside in order to provide room for the other to flop down beside him.

"Well, if you say so." Tyki shrugged mildly. "Anyways, I woke up in the hospital to the sound of the authorities arguing about where to ship me. And, figuring I'd either end up in prison or in juvie, I used a moment of inattentiveness on their part to make my escape…"

"I was pretty weak, but I managed to make my getaway before finally crashing in a nearby alley." He paused, reaching for his cup of tea which had by then become lukewarm at best. "And that's when he turned up…"

"Who?"

"The Earl," Tyki relayed, sipping his tea. "An eccentric man, but an obscenely rich one. For some reason, he took pity on me and negotiated with the authorities for me to be released into his care."

Allen found himself staring at him, trying to wrap his mind around the concept. "So…" he finally managed, frowning slightly. "You killed your father in self-defence and ended up being taken in by an eccentric Samaritan?"

Tyki snorted in response, leaning back and crossing his arms. "Calling him a Samaritan would be pushing it to the limit, but in essence, yes."

"So, he just picked you up on a whim just like you picked me up on a whim?"

A look was sent in his general direction. "Except I haven't had to grapple with the authorities in regards to you yet."

"And if they try to pin you down on the charge of kidnapping?"

Tyki actually snickered at that. "Well, it's true, kind of, but it's a question about semantics anyhow," he then continued. "Besides, you did not seem to be entirely unwilling."

"I was unconscious due to a head injury," Allen deadpanned.

"Well, that aside…" Tyki shrugged mildly, uncrossing his arms. He leant forward, leaning his elbows onto his thighs, interlacing his fingers with a contemplating look adorning his face. "You don't seem very keen on escaping from me now, do you?"

"I can't walk very far, I'm avoiding authorities and I might've developed a bit of a Stockholm syndrome by now," Allen deadpanned, actually quite sure about the last part.

Tyki on the other hand just offered up another shrug. "Well, as I said, I don't make a habit out of kidnapping random strangers off the street, but I did make an exception for you since you looked like you could need it."

His mind deluded by the Stockholm syndrome or not, Allen found himself agreeing. "Thanks for doing that, by the way. Pizza has never tasted as good as it did yesterday."

He was awarded a long stare from his companion, his sort-of kidnapper-turned-something-else-entirely. "You're thanking me for a few slices of pizza?" Tyki asked. "Seriously?"

Allen just shrugged. "Maybe."

"You're freaking unbelievable."

Again, Allen felt decidedly inclined to agree. "Probably."

Silence settled between them. Then, Tyki was once more reaching for his laptop, opening it up. "So… pizza?"

"Can I have two?" Allen found himself asking, nausea and dizziness almost forgotten.

"I suppose."

"I'm Allen, by the way," he finally offered. "Red was my first name and the one that's on my birth certificate, but Allen is the name that my foster father gave me."

"Okay, makes sense." Tyki nodded. "It suits you."

"He named me after his dog," Allen offered.

Tyki shot him a quick look before frowning down at the laptop. "Seriously?"

Seriously.

**- o0o -**

The meeting was long over with and Cross was heading back home.

Taking detours was nothing unusual in his case, though said detours tended to lead to far livelier locations; pubs, supermarkets on occasions, work.

The cemetery was not one of said locations, yet that was where he found himself, and in front of a familiar headstone at that.

Saint Grey's Churchyard lay largely deserted with the exception of a pair of old ladies who were already on their way out and sent a decidedly disdainful look his way, muttering something about his disrespectfulness for standing there, smoking oh-so-casually.

Honestly, Cross couldn't exactly see why they were complaining; he was outside and it was not as though those closest had to worry about the health issues of passive smoke inhalation, rather stone dead as they were.

The headstone marking the grave of Mana Walker lay before him, its inscription fresh and decidedly to the point, detailing the name and birth date along with death date, but offering up no hinted details in regards to the life that had taken place between them. Then again, it was not as though Cross himself actually needed the information or even a reminder, seeing to the fact that he already knew even more about the other's life than would normally be seen as prudent; the other's family life, that is.

Granted, Cross had never actually striven to involve himself in the decidedly screwed up lives of the Walker family, but due to certain circumstances, he had become fairly knowledgeable in regards to how it worked in practice.

Simply put, the Walkers had a penchant for madness. Then again, considering who currently presided over it, it would have been far stranger if they weren't a bit off their rockers.

Then again, penchant aside, Mana Walker had largely been more of a victim of circumstance than out of genealogy. And, truth to be told, his older brother had probably been the same, given that neither of the two were actually that closely related to the family head in question; related, yes, but not too closely.

It was after all an unfortunate practice amongst powerful families to inbreed whenever opportunities to interbreed proved scarce; a practice that in time had a tendency to lead to certain difficulties as far as producing healthy and mentally sound offspring was concerned.

Then again, considering things, perhaps mental health had been a matter of lesser importance; to the family head, at any rate.

Once a family both powerful and populous, the Walkers had been in a steady decline for centuries, surviving into the modern era largely thanks to the numerous branch families that had spawned from the descendants of those who had chosen intermarriage over inbreeding.

In the end, but a single purebred Walker had remained; the young family head who at the tender age of sixteen married a second cousin of his, spawning a daughter and nothing more.

The family head had obviously had great plans for the future; plans in which his only daughter had no doubt been expected to play an integral part; plans that had ultimately become naught because of circumstances largely beyond their control.

Cross had never truly intended to involve himself in the affair or with any of those involved in it. He had made a great number of decisions that he wasn't very proud of in hindsight, especially knowing now what had eventually come about as a result.

Had he been twenty-three, then it might still have been excusable, but at twenty-seven, he really ought to have known better.

Perhaps that's what it was, really; a punishment for past inaction; the revenge of those left behind.

One was before him, or rather beneath him, hidden beneath a traditional six feet of earth but clearly labelled by the headstone.

The respective fates of the others were no secret to him, but their resting places certainly were. Then again, it wasn't as though he actually intended to visit their earthly remains now or in the future, so‒

His phone vibrated in his pocket; he retrieved it and stared at the display for a split second before taking the call. "What do you want?" he snapped, having no intentions to get caught up in exchanging pleasantries with the one at the other end, seeing that even if the number was withheld, he knew very well who held it.

Instead of an answer, there was a chuckle, and it came along with a very intense sensation of being watched.

Full of disdain, Cross gave in to the pressure of the heavy scrutiny and, phone still pressed against his ear, directed his gaze towards the wrought iron gates.

They were closed now, courtesy of the old hags from before, but on the other side ‒ plainly visible through the fencing ‒ stood a middle-aged man with an umbrella.

It had been almost sixteen years since last, but the identity of the man in the light-coloured coat over by the gates by no means eluded him, much like his own identity by no means eluded the other.

Around them, the first couple of raindrops began to fall, tentatively at first and then with increasing vigour.

Uncaring of the rain, Cross retained his posture and his eyes ‒ already narrow ‒ narrowed further.

"Good afternoon, Earl," he finally drawled, speaking into the receiver all whilst looking directly at the person to whom he was addressing his question. "To what do I owe this displeasure?"

**- o0o -**

The doorbell rang.

Tyki went to answer it, whilst Allen himself took cover in the couch so that he wouldn't be immediately visible in case Tyki decided to swing the door open fully.

"Two pepperoni and one _Quattro Stagioni_. That'd be-" was all that the delivery guy managed before Tyki had snatched the pizza boxes from him and pressed a bunch of crumbled up notes into the guy's hand with instructions that he could _"Keep the change"_.

"This is a fifty-pound note," proved to be the delivery guy's somewhat disbelieving response, and the hiding Allen found himself frowning, finding the other's voice very – _very_ – familiar.

As such, whilst Tyki attempted to convince the disbelieving deliveryman that his tip somehow correlated to his level of gratitude in the seeming effort of getting the other to leave quicker, Allen popped his head up over the back of the couch to gain visual confirmation of something that he was already suspecting. _"Lavi?"_

He got a look of utter confusion bordering on incomprehension in response.

Then, from one moment to the other, the colour drained abruptly from Lavi's face and then he just toppled over in the doorway as Tyki Mikk took a surprised step to the side, the pizza boxes still in hand.

"Allen?" the latter wondered out loud. "Did some delivery guy just pass out in my hallway?"

Allen ‒ still staring at the crumbled form of a familiar redhead ‒ found himself at a momentary loss for words. "So it would seem," he finally managed, eyes never straying from the crumbled form.

Tyki hummed rather thoughtfully at that as he turned, neatly stepping past the crumbled form in his doorway on his way into the living room, where he set the boxes down before turning towards Allen. "Your acquaintance?" he asked simply, making a vague hand gesture towards the doorway.

"Half-brother," Allen responded, attempting to rise to his feet in order to do something about the freaking person on the floor, realising about halfway through just how much of a bad idea it was as a jolt of positively agonising pain ran through him the moment that the bandaged soles of his feet touched the floor.

Seemingly aware of his situation, Tyki bent down to scoop him up, only then really giving some sort of vocal reaction to his statement. "Seriously?"

"Did I stutter or something? Yes!" Allen snapped at him, but as usual, Tyki appeared to take little offence and swiftly brought them both to the doorway, setting Allen down next to the collapsed redhead before joining him in a crouched-down position.

Once there however, Allen found himself virtually at loss for what to do, and looking at Tyki didn't really help, seeing that the amber-eyed adult seemed content with observing the scenario unfold from a close distance.

Finally, reasoning that it could hardly hurt, Allen poked the prone body.

His efforts earned a slight moan, but only just that.

Oh well, at least they were still breathing. But still…

"What do we do?"

He looked up at Tyki, who looked mildly surprised at having been included in said _we_.

"Well," the latter eventually managed. "I've got a bed?"

**- o0o -**

It would suffice to say that Lavi Bookman was having a crappy day at work. No, on second thought, it would not suffice; not at all, actually, because it was a grave understatement.

He groaned, feeling like the living dead. His head was pounding, like there was this tiny guy on the inside wielding this big-ass hammer, slamming repeatedly it into some very hurtful places in his skull. But ‒ if he recalled things correctly ‒ he had taken pills for that; for the extreme headache, mind you, and not for imagined tiny people armed with hammers living in his brain. Now, where-?

"Lavi?"

He frowned at the mention of his latest name. That voice; why did it sound so…?

With much effort, he forced his eyes open, taking in the blurry outlines of his surroundings; his very unfamiliar surroundings. Where the Hell?

A slight movement to the right attracted his attention, and soon thereafter, he blearily found himself looking at a vaguely familiar face framed by familiar hair in an unfamiliar colour. Wait, those eyes…

"…Allen?" he finally croaked, regarding the other with a great deal of confusion. "Am I in Heaven?"

Allen – black-haired for some reason – merely shrugged in response. "Nah, but you're on the tenth floor."

The response made sense, somehow, as Lavi could vaguely recall climbing several flights of stairs, cursing the fact that the building's lift had been out of commission. Still, there was something…

For one thing, he honestly could not get why Allen was there – black-haired and all – and why he-Wait… "There was a guy?"

His half-brother looked up, eyes brightening some. "Ah, you mean Tyki?"

_Tyki? _"Who?"

"Yeah…" Allen shifted somewhat uncomfortably. "Long story."

Long story? No shit.

Lavi shot up, clutching his aching head momentarily before reaching out and grabbing a hold of his wayward brother's shoulders; completely disregarding the fact that the latter usually had a rather bad and potentially violent reaction to other people's physical touch. "Where have you been?!" he demanded, shaking the other slightly. "I've been looking everywhere for you!"

Said wayward brother kicked up an eyebrow in response, not lashing out or doing anything that Lavi would have expected him to do. "Why?"

"Why?" Lavi echoed in clear disbelief, keeping his grip firm even as the other reached up in an attempt to dislodge his hands. "I've been worried! You just up and disappeared. Of course I was worried; who wouldn't have been? And what the Hell happened to your hair?"

The part about the hair came as an afterthought, but it brought about some sort of response as the other frowned. "Lavi?"

"Yes?" he immediately responded.

"You're freaking me out, seriously," Allen deadpanned.

"Ah… sorry." Lavi finally let go, still utterly confused about the whole thing. "I just-"

His voice died down and his single visible eye widened in quiet shock when Allen's hands found his shoulders. "You should worry more about yourself," the other said, sounding honestly concerned for his continued wellbeing. "Seriously."

What?

Was Allen really touching him? Out of his own free will?

Why did he sound and act so calmly? Why did he seem so calm?

What was this place? Had he somehow entered the twilight zone without realising it?

Lavi opened his mouth, ready to demand an explanation. Before he was able to do so however, someone dangled a slice of pizza before him. Quite naturally, he startled, shrinking back from it only to hit something else behind him.

Glancing up, he came face to face with an amber-eyed man who he could vaguely reca-Never mind, too close, too close, _too close_ – now he was the one getting claustrophobic!

"Are you hungry?" the amber-eyed stranger cheerfully inquired. "There should still be a few slices left if you want any-"

He stared dumbly at the man for a second or two. Then, he fainted.

**- o0o -**

"Hey, Allen…"

Allen ‒ seated at his half-brother's bedside ‒ awarded the other with a somewhat pointed look. "What?"

Tyki ‒ seated on the other side of the mattress ‒ made a slight gesture towards the redhead passed out between them. "I know that I have dashing good looks and all, but why is it that people keep fainting or knocking themselves out at the mere sight of me?"

The pointed look turned mildly exasperated. "Tyki…"

"Yeah?"

"Are you an idiot?"

"I don't think so," the other responded somewhat wryly, rising to his feet. "Why?"

"Nothing much." Allen looked at the phone that the other had just handed him, checking for messages before turning it off. "Just wondering."

**- o0o -**


	4. Chapter IV

_At long last, the continuation.  
><em>

**- o0o -**

**Chapter IV:**

_**In which some reunions are had, caffeine is essential and nicotine is unavoidable.**_

_**In which Allen is conflicted, Lavi is worried, Cross is an arse, and Tyki actually does some work for once.**_

_**In which kinship is claimed, strengthened, investigated and also contested.**_

**- o0o -**

Lavi Bookman woke up feeling decidedly disoriented in a room that wasn't his own, in a bed that wasn't his own, and ensnared in sheets that definitely weren't his own. On the plus side of things however, he did wake up lying next to someone who was technically his in the sense that both of them shared about fifty percent's worth of genes passed onto them through their shared lineage.

Allen appeared to be sleeping, and soundly at that. As such, Lavi somewhat grudgingly refrained from getting up and out of bed, even though he was admittedly curious ‒ and maybe just a tad terrified ‒ as to how the general situation had come about, seeing that he remembered very little of what had taken place prior to it. He did sit up though, cradling his head.

Vaguely, he did recall having woken up feeling like crap, oversleeping and getting in late for his part-time job. He also recalled making a number of deliveries, heading up a shitload of stairs and then somewhat unexpectedly encountering the younger half-brother that he had spent hours looking for the previous night.

No, wait. There had been something else; someone tall, dark, and handso‒

"Tall, dark and handsome? Well, that's definitely a first."

Lavi looked up, both horrified by the implication that he had just spoken aloud and by the fact that he hadn't even noticed that another person had just come in the room.

Tyki Mikk ‒ still smirking ‒ handed him a steaming mug of coffee; attempted to, at any rate.

Lavi however ‒ still quietly horrified ‒ finally had the sense to snap his mouth back shut, feeling his face heating up as he struggled to keep his hands steady as he reached out to receive the cup.

Tyki Mikk ‒ looking far more _a_mused than _be_mused ‒ took to sipping from his own cup, shooting Lavi a look out of the corner of his eye; clearly expecting him to take the first step. Oh.

"So," Lavi finally managed, actually floundering. "I hear that this is the tenth floor."

There was another look sent his way. "So they say."

"Did you know that this building's lift's freaking broken?"

There was a mild shrug in response. "Duly noted."

"Did you know that you're as a matter of fact harbouring a runaway?"

The other finally turned partially, taking another sip whilst looking at him very intently. "And if I did?"

Lavi wasn't entirely sure as to what to say to that, so he had some more coffee instead, grimacing slightly at the sheer bitterness of it. "This tastes like crap."

"Maybe, but it's still caffeine." Tall, dark and handsome drained what little remains of his. "If you're not happy with it, then you may try for yourself."

Lavi momentarily contemplated the merits of doing just that. Then, he redirected his thoughts towards more important matters. "So," he began, analytical mindset beginning to kick in now that the caffeine had kick-started his brain. "What's the date, time, location and purpose of this… situation?"

That earned him a blink. "Situation?"

Lavi made a vague gesture towards Allen who didn't even twitch where he lay curled up on his side, looking almost disturbingly peaceful and content. "Situation."

Tyki Mikk shrugged mildly before walking up to the window, peeking through the blinds down at the street below. "Just the current one or also the things leading up to it?"

"Both."

That earned him a sideways look. "Can I pop out to buy some nicotine patches first?" Tyki ran a hand through his hair, dishevelling it further. "I'm experiencing a bit of a withdrawal."

"You see," he went, his strangely coloured eyes resting on Allen's curled up form. "He won't let me smoke, even if I have the window open."

Having been on the verge of doing something about that very keen gaze mere moments prior, Lavi now found himself staring and in disbelief at that. "Dude, it's your apartment, isn't it?"

"In a manner of speaking."

Lavi found himself frowning at that, decidedly curious but opting not to pry. "You're still letting a fifteen-year-old dictate what you can and can't do in your own apartment though."

That earned him a pointed look from Tyki Mikk who now stood, leaning against the windowsill with his back facing the window. "Fifteen or not, I asked if I could smoke, and he said no, so I won't."

"But-"

Tyki Mikk held his hands up. "We'll talk more once I've got my morning nicotine," he announced before leaving the room and then the apartment.

Lavi just stared after him. Then, a good thirty seconds after he had heard the apartment door slamming, he finally slid out of bed, putting aside the still half-filled cup before sparing a moment to check if Allen was still sleeping.

He was, and soundly at that, which was very unnatural, considering the situation at hand and the people involved in it.

Drugs?

Though it was a sickening thought, Lavi considered it, viewing it as a possibility that he would have to look into at some point; preferably imminently. Before that though ‒ since Allen hardly appeared to be in any life-threatening danger and this Tyki Mikk guy was seemingly out of the picture at the moment ‒ Lavi reasoned that he might as well refrain from looking a gift horse in the mouth and that he ought to give the apartment a quick sweep for suspicious or unlawful items or activities, just because. Also, he reasoned that he might as well take a quick trip to the bathroom whilst he was at it.

He took care of that first, and then made a quick sweep of the place, finding very little in general that one wouldn't expect to find in any other apartment, with two or three notable exceptions to the rule.

First and foremost, there was an abundance of painting materials and semi-finished works, leading to the very obvious conclusion that this Tyki guy was some sort of artist, and if not at least semi-professional, then at the very least passionate about it to such an extent that he had allowed a hobby to take over his life as well as about a third of his living room and about three fourths of his utility closet.

Secondly, there was a distinct lack of pots, pottery and kitchen utensils, indicating that the apartment normally didn't house more than one individual on a regular basis; said individual far more likely than not being Tyki Mikk himself.

Thirdly, the fridge housed little food of the perishable sort and a beer box along with a half-drunken bottle of vodka, whilst the freezer housed a surprising variety of ready-cooked meals. The general contents of both fridge and freezer definitely pointed to a lone bachelor with little skill or inspiration for cooking who had the financial means to order takeout if he felt like it.

Wait…

Takeout.

Oh.

It finally occurred to him that he had been in the middle of a delivery when everything had abruptly cut off, and though that Tyki guy had yet to offer him any information as to the present date, the light conditions told him all that he really needed to know. As such, he patted all his pockets in search of his cell phone, growing increasingly anxious about things when he found that he did not have it on him.

A quick but discreet search of the bedroom finally turned up with the phone safely deposited inside the top drawer of the small bedside table upon which he had put his half-emptied coffee mug. It felt almost a bit anticlimactic, finding it in a quite obvious place like that.

A familiar albeit tired voice then cut into the anticipatory silence, causing him to stiffen where he reached into the drawer to retrieve his phone.

"Tyki talked to your boss," Allen informed him somewhat groggily but somehow very much aware of what Lavi was doing even though he was curled up on his side, back facing him. "Told them what happened. Shouldn't be a problem."

Lavi wasn't entirely sure as to what to say to that. Then again, his brain wasn't exactly functioning at optimal capacity at the moment, meaning that being rendered speechless without a proper comeback was probably accepted. Probably. "Oh," he finally managed. "Did he?"

Allen didn't dignify that one with a response. However, as Lavi discovered upon closer inspection, the lack of response was probably due to the fact that the other had fallen asleep again.

Naturally, it was in this somewhat compromising position that he found himself when he heard a door being unlocked and opened, admitting someone into the flat. Lavi swiftly made sure to get out of it before the newcomer ‒ Tyki? ‒ turned up, though at the same time he wondered whether or not he ought to pretend that he too was sleeping, simply to see what happened, or if he ought to keep his eyes open, his ears peeled and his guard up in order to ensure that no harm came to either Allen or himself, hopefully without provoking any type of unfavourable response.

"Yo," came Tyki's voice from the hallway. "We talk in the living room, yeah?"

Well, Lavi supposed that settled it.

**- o0o -**

A cup of Starbucks coffee greeted him when he made it to the living room.

Tyki Mikk had already appropriated a cup of his own and was sipping it pensively whilst watching him with those strange amber-coloured eyes of his.

When Lavi remained where he was in the doorway between the bedroom and the hallway leading into the living room, the other apparently saw the need to gesture for him to take a seat beside him on the sofa.

Although highly reluctant, Lavi complied and sat down, although not without putting as much distance between them as possible. He also did not touch the coffee; it stood there beckoning him, but he did not touch it. Perhaps it was paranoia speaking, whispering about all the possible substances that could possibly be accompanying whatever coffee blend had been poured into the cup, added after purchase.

The mere thought of it had a shiver run down his spine, and though he attempted to suppress it, a visible shiver still rocked him.

"You cold?"

Lavi wondered whether or not he ought to nod or shake his head, or if he ought to talk and say that he was not cold in a physical sense but rather in a mental one. "Somewhat."

"Hoh?" Tyki put his cup aside and bent over to one side to fish a blanket up from the floor, presenting it to him. "Help yourself."

When Lavi simply stared and thereby failed to comply within a reasonable amount of time, the blanket was then directly thrown on top of him, startling him and sending him into the budding stages of panic when arms moved to restrain him.

"Whoa, careful," Tyki admonished him, dragging him closer with the blanket and all. "You'll spill the coffee."

Somehow, the reminder about the coffee kept him from thrashing or screaming and whatnot when Tyki let him go and proceeded to drape the blanket over his shoulders, making a slight gesture towards the untouched coffee before returning to his own.

Lavi shot him a look of disbelief and kept it up for a good minute all whilst Tyki went on drinking his coffee, apparently unperturbed by the continued scrutiny.

"Well, this is awkward," the man finally decided.

Lavi felt inclined to agree, but found himself eyeing the untouched cup of coffee instead.

"You know," Tyki finally offered. "If it's poison or drugs that you're so afraid of, I could take the first sip if you like?"

It seemed like a charitable offer, albeit a strange one. Then again, in a situation such as this, what wasn't?

"Do you ask people that a lot?" Lavi finally managed, pulling the blanket a bit more tightly around himself whilst continuing to eye the other warily.

"I was recently asked if I made art out of human body parts." Tyki shrugged mildly. "Considering the way that you were eyeing the coffee, I merely assumed that you were thinking that I've put something in it."

Making art out of human body parts? "Have you?"

"Which one?"

Lavi opted to pursue the somewhat saner option. "Did you put anything into the coffee?"

"Sugar and cream," Tyki readily confessed, and again it occurred to Lavi how the man remained noticeably _a_mused as opposed to _be_mused when the latter ought to have been the more sensible reaction, topping it all off with a "I hope you're not lactose intolerant" that simply sent Lavi down a lane of new and strange and intriguing possibilities.

Again, he pulled the blanket more tightly around himself, surrounding himself with it like it was a cape, and reached resolutely for the cup of coffee. He grasped it and had a sip, confirming that indeed, Tyki had at the very least not lied about the more obvious additions. "Good choice." He took more sips out of it. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Chancing a look off in the other's general direction, Lavi found that the other was smirking. Lavi decided that this was probably a normal occurrence as opposed to a sign that the other was planning something positively nefarious. "You're a strange man, Tyki Mikk."

If anything, the smirk grew more pronounced. "In a positive sense, I hope?"

Truth to be told, Lavi wasn't all too sure about that. Then again, Allen had obviously seen something in the man and seemed to be awfully chill in the man's presence, so…

"I believe that you promised me an explanation."

Seemingly oblivious to the scrutiny, Tyki put his own emptied cup of coffee down onto the table, a serious undertone finally entering his features as he shot a very pointed look towards Lavi. "Without Allen?"

"Without me?" Allen pitched in suddenly, and Lavi nearly pulled a muscle in his neck from how he snapped his head around so fast to find that his half-brother had apparently not only woken up but had also been standing in the doorway, overlooking them for who knew how long.

Instantly, Lavi felt a sudden stab of guilt. Tyki meanwhile didn't seem to be all that surprised, judging by the smirk that was once again perfectly evident on the other's face, and to his horror, Lavi watched as a similar look crossed Allen's face, and said horror by no means diminished when Allen casually limped over and with little to no hesitation took a seat in-between them on the sofa.

"No coffee for me then?"

Tyki's smirk broadened some. "Did you want any?"

"Some tea would be nice?"

And lo and behold, Tyki actually got right up, still smirking. "Earl Grey's alright with you?"

Allen offered up merely a dismissive wave, and only directed his attention to an openly gaping Lavi once Tyki had disappeared off into the kitchen, kicking up an eyebrow at the look on the redhead's face.

It took a moment or two for Lavi to properly recover some semblance of composure. And then, it struck him. "Why are you limping?" he asked, both suspicious and quietly horrified but trying not to show either. Even so, he couldn't help but shoot a horrified look in direction of the kitchen, considering the possibilities.

Judging from the slight grimace, Allen did pick up on the underlying insinuation. Then, somewhat surprisingly, he pointed to his feet. "I didn't have time to put my shoes on."

Surprisingly, said statement did make a lot of sense. Even so, Lavi did see the need to make sure that he hadn't misunderstood its true meaning. "You left with no shoes on."

"I ran," Allen helpfully supplied, wiggling his bandaged feet slightly. "But it wasn't until later that they began hurting like Hell."

"It was raining," Lavi commented, quietly thinking that the humidity and plunge in temperature might have had something to do with that. "And you were barefoot."

He hadn't exactly meant to sound accusing, but the words definitely came out that way, and judging from the slight flinch that he got, it wasn't just his imagination. Although it was a justified reaction to such a reckless act, Lavi found that he couldn't help but feel a bit guilty. "Look." He lowered his voice whilst discreetly keeping track of Tyki's movements out in the kitchen. "Cross screwed up big time, but that's nothing new, but for goodness sake, you should've put some goddamned shoes on!"

If anything, Allen looked surprised at that. Lavi wanted to pry into the reasons for this, although at the same time he did figure that he probably would not like them very much should he ever learn them.

"I wasn't thinking." Allen shrugged mildly and then sent off a wry look in direction of Tyki who had now appeared with the tea. "Besides, it's turned out quite nicely so far, hasn't it?"

Lavi found for sure that he did not like the ease with which the pair seemed to interact, and he even felt his face scrunch up slightly as Tyki presented Allen with the tea in a manner which clearly emulated and presumably also mocked that of an elegant butler before his posture went slouch and he sat back into the sofa as though he had never left it in the first place.

"You're just doing this to mess with my head, aren't you?" Lavi finally decided, although truth to be told, he wasn't all too sure that they were.

Allen elbowed Tyki in the ribs, although in a manner that was more playful than malevolent. "Told you it was overkill."

"It was still funny," Tyki in turn responded, holding a hand to the side of his ribcage as a slight grimace fleeted across his face before morphing into the slight smirk that seemed to make up an essential part of the other's default facial expression.

"You planned this?" Receiving an obvious affirmative, Lavi hid his face in his hands and then proceeded to pinch the ridge of his nose. "Seriously?"

He didn't need to look in order to see the looks exchanged. Frankly, he found them more than just a bit worrying.

**- o0o -**

Feeling somewhat more like himself now after the latest ingestion of caffeine, Lavi had gone down to check out if his motorbike was still in one piece, and finding it as such, the redhead had then left, mentioning something about getting shoes. Either way, this left Allen back with Tyki up in the flat, with the former curled up with his backpack on the sofa and the latter busying himself with setting up a canvas and mixing colours.

Allen watched him work for a good number of minutes before finally speaking up, informing Tyki of his intentions. "I'm not going back there."

Having just dipped his brush in paint and being on the verge of painting his very first strokes, Tyki paused, turning his head slightly to shoot him a sideways glance. Then, returning to the canvas at hand, he finally added the first couple of strokes in carmine. "Then how about going back to your brother's place?" He added more colours and a bit of thoughtfulness. "You could at the very least ask, right?"

Allen just hugged his knees all the more tightly. "I suppose."

"Well, if it doesn't work out, then you can have my number if you like?"

It seemed as though Tyki had picked up on his doubts. It seemed to be a quite generous offer though, but how far did it stretch in reality?

Allen decided to probe the matter a bit further. "Does that mean that I can call you?" he asked, earning a mild shrug and a simple "Anytime" in return, countering it with a somewhat disbelieving "You mean literally anytime or just normal times?" that earned yet another shrug.

"I don't really do normal." Tyki added charcoal black strokes to the canvas. "But if you need me or if you just want to talk…"

Allen wondered at the proper way in which to respond to that. "You're a strange person, Tyki Mikk."

That earned him an amused snort. "It takes one to know one."

He hummed slightly in agreement, watching as Tyki continued his work on the painting.

"You don't have a phone, right?"

The question caught him slightly off guard. "No cell phone, no."

Tyki made a vague gesture towards the kitchen with the hand that wasn't busy holding onto the paintbrush. "Check out the back of the second drawer to the left."

Allen felt his eyebrows climb at this, but obliged even so, unfurling from his curled up position and heading off towards the kitchen. Not long thereafter, he pulled out the instructed drawer all the way out and found himself staring at a surprising amount of notes; money, that is. "What's up with the cash?"

"They're for your brother," Tyki's voice informed him from the living room. "Get him to buy you a phone."

"No strings attached?"

"No strings attached."

Again, that sounded like a reeeeeally generous offer; outlandish even. "But where did it come from; the money, I mean… if you don't mind me asking?"

"It's pocket money, from my brother."

Allen blinked at that. "You have a brother?"

"Half-brother, technically speaking. Coz my father was a hypocrite." Tyki's voice floated into the kitchen, delivering the somewhat wry response. "Yeah, Sheril's a bit of a hassle to be completely honest, but he keeps wanting to look out for me, making up for lost time and whatnot."

Again, Allen wondered if there was even a proper way to respond to that. "Sounds like a complicated family." He withdrew a number of notes and counted them, ending up with what constituted to _a lot_ by his own standards. Pocket money, huh?

"As I said, takes one to know one."

Indeed it did. "But you do get along?"

Tyki did not respond immediately. "Occasionally."

Allen found that he could read a lot into that pause as he returned to the living room, still counting notes. "Is it anything like Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes?"

"Oh, you've got no idea." Tyki withdrew the brush from the canvas in favour of shooting Allen a decidedly amused look. "Can you keep a secret?"

Allen decided to be diplomatic about it. "Only if you can keep mine."

"Let me paint you a picture," Tyki offered. "Or just show you one."

Putting the brush and other material aside for a moment, the man pulled out his phone and fiddled with it for a bit before angling it so that Allen could take a good look.

"Looks like some political hotshot," Allen commented.

"_Is_ some political hotshot," Tyki responded, holding the phone out for Allen to take so that he could get back to work.

Taking the phone, Allen stared at the man in the picture with a sense of disbelieving curiosity. "Really?"

"Really," Tyki affirmed, picking up right where he had left off.

Allen found himself with a distinct feeling of being left out of the loop, scrutinising the man even further. "Should I know who this is?"

"Unless you've been living under a rock, probably yeah."

The man did look decidedly familiar, particularly upon closer inspection. "So, who is he?"

Tyki's response was swift and surprisingly deadpan. "Sheril Kamelot."

"Sounds vaguely familiar." No, the name definitely rang a bell somewhere.

"He's the Chancellor of the Exchequer." Tyki stepped back to critically admire his latest piece. "Simply put, he's the Minister of Finance."

The Minister of Finance? "Oh. You're not exactly financially struggling then."

Tyki tilted his head slightly to one side and then to the other, his eyes entirely focused upon the canvas before him. "I've got an overbearing uncle and an equally overbearing half-brother. I'm good."

Judging from the number of fairly high-value notes that were still in the drawer, 'good' appeared to be a bit of an understatement. Still… "I take it that you don't exactly get to brag about this very often."

"Nope." Brush back in hand, Tyki stepped back to the painting to make a few minor adjustments. "I'm largely off the record as it is, and I would like to stay that way."

A while ago, that would have made two of them. Allen tried not to feel too bitter about it, wilfully diverting his attention from the fact. "Not a fan of the limelight then?" he tried instead, earning another shrug and a quite frank "I've got nothing against the limelight, as long as I'm not personally in it."

Allen figured that this was a sound stance on the matter. Still… "So, displaying your works of art is okay but not displaying you as a person?"

"Something like that," proved to be the somewhat avoidant response.

Throughout the time that Allen had spent in the other's company, this was the first time that he could recall having seen the other looking this uncomfortable. Frankly, it intrigued him. "But what about exhibitions and shit? Don't you have to make an appearance on those kinds of events?"

Tyki took a step back from his work once more before nodding, apparently satisfied with what he saw. "I skip out of them if I can," the man then revealed, discomfort becoming more apparent in his tone and demeanour. "But, I do prefer them to family dinners and reunions."

"Right," Allen said, recalling something of the sort. "Black sheep of the family."

"That makes two of us, don't you think?"

Allen pocketed the notes that he had been holding onto before shooting the other a decidedly deadpan look.

"Oh right, virtually no family to speak of, wasn't it?"

Allen averted his eyes, stepping up to the window to see if Lavi had returned yet. "I've got a brother now, I suppose."

"But no father?"

Allen actually considered it, albeit only for a fraction of a second. "Nah, I've had one; I don't really need another."

Apparently satisfied, Tyki went to clean his brushes and palette; himself as well presumably, seeing that more than just a few specks of paint had ended up on his face, arms, and hands, and a bit on his clothes as well. Then again, as far as the latter's clothes were concerned, the man could obviously get new ones and plenty of them should he wish it, considering the vast amount of cash that the other seemed to have so carelessly stashed in the back of his kitchen drawer.

In the other's absence, Allen stood watching the now finished painting, admiring it to some extent even though art wasn't exactly his thing or area of expertise.

The painting seemed to depict a landscape of some sort, although an outlandish at that, steeped in carmine red and charcoal black and grey and the occasional flicker of warmer colours.

Allen wondered what it depicted, but he didn't ask.

Tyki finished cleaning up and then surrendered a post-it note featuring his cell phone number. Allen took it without prompting, studied the number briefly and then folded the note, depositing it into his pocket for later retrieval right before a slight knock on the door signalled Lavi's return.

Soon thereafter, Allen was putting his shoes on, wincing slightly as they came into contact with still healing blisters.

Lavi seemed somewhat impatient. "You ready to go?"

Allen considered saying no, but ultimately opted against it. He honestly couldn't remember why though.

They exited the flat, some with a greater deal of haste than others. Allen took note of the slight flush on his brother's face, inwardly wondering if the lift still had not been fixed as he glanced back at Tyki, who saluted them with a slight wave and a wry smirk that Allen wondered about.

Soon, they reached the lift; it was working now, lo and behold.

They got in and the doors closed behind them, and it was only then that Lavi's tense posture relaxed slightly, following which he took a deep breath and then another, both with a seemingly liberating feel to them. Allen wondered. Eventually, he could no longer keep silent about it. "Your face is red, you know?" he said as they reached the ground floor and made their way out.

Lavi dismissed his concern with a slight wave. "I've still got a cold, and I've been a bit stressed lately, so it's to be expected. I'm a bit frazzled, that's all."

That probably wasn't all.

Once out on the street again and holding a helmet, Allen found himself directing his eyes skyward, or at the very least to the tenth floor. There was no one in the windows looking down at them; somehow, this made him somewhat disappointed.

"Come on," Lavi urged him, already having mounted the bike. "Put your helmet on."

Allen obliged, regretting the notion already.

"Hey, Lavi?"

"Yeah?"

**- o0o -**

About half an hour later, Allen found himself climbing the stairs to Cross' apartment. It was a rather surreal event in general and rather uneasy as well. Frankly, Allen wanted little more than to turn around and to head back downstairs and to leave the way that he had come. Lavi had offered to accompany him, but Allen ‒ recognising the fact that he had already caused enough trouble ‒ had turned him down, urging him to head home and to get some rest; concerns for the other's health hardly seemed unfounded after all.

Thus, Allen found himself alone, facing the door much like one facing a major leap; wary but determined. He raised his hand to the door, hesitated and then felt angry, at himself and at Cross. Why should he be here, knocking or ringing the doorbell; requesting admittance to a flat that he didn't even want to re-enter? Why was he back here again?

Right, he was back to collect his stuff, to collect his stuff and leave; nothing more and nothing less.

He reached out and tried the handle.

The door was unlocked; a relief as well as a disappointment, seeing that a locked door would have given him an excuse not to enter in the first place.

Allen entered the flat without announcing his presence, quietly pushing the door shut behind him but only just.

"Back for your stuff?"

He tried his best not to startle at the callous voice that came out of the dimly lit flat, cutting into what had constituted to an eerie silence. Steeling himself, he moved to remove his shoes, figuring that keeping them on would be a sign of weakness; of fear. He wasn't afraid; not afraid of coming here and not afraid of announcing his intentions. It was his life after all; his decision what to make of it. "Yes, I'm moving them over to Lavi's place."

"Is it permanent?" Seated in a much favoured armchair with their back to him, Cross seemed noticeably unbothered; uncaring even. Then again, this was the same man who had disrespected his right to privacy, bothering to snoop through his belongings but not to look for him afterwards. A relief on one hand, yes, but definitely despicable on the other.

"Do you want it to be?" He sounded far bitterer than he had intended to sound. He wasn't bitter; this was what he wanted, was it not? This tobacco-smelling dump wasn't a home; it was a graveyard of human dignity and decency and a den of human vices.

Cross still didn't turn, contemplating his glass of wine. "The social service lady's coming over."

It didn't concern him; he had gone off the grid once and he could do so again, and even if he didn't, he could ask if Lavi'd agree to be his guardian. Cross wasn't his only alternative to foster care anymore. In other words, Cross could rot in Hell for all that Allen cared; rather, he preferred it. Still… "When?"

Again, a disinterested response. "Tomorrow afternoon."

"And?"

At last, Cross put the wine glass aside, although not before draining it, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "There is a clause in Alana's testament."

"A clause?" Allen could not help but feel decidedly unsettled. "Is it about payment?"

"In part."

"What more is there?" What more could there possibly be?

Instead of responding, Cross gestured vaguely towards the nearby table, or rather towards the stack of papers that lay upon it. Against better judgement, Allen took a look at them, tentatively at first. They were written in legalese, so it took a moment or so before he managed to understand what he was reading. Frankly, their general contents chilled him to the core.

"Still going to Lavi's place?"

Really, Allen could have sworn that the other was laughing at him; he was most certainly doing so, if only on the inside.

This despicable man…

This despicable, smug bastard…

Allen thrust his hand out, palm facing upwards. "Cell phone."

Cross kicked his eyebrow up, although it was a very slight motion; a slight twitch. "Calling for him to come and pick you up?"

Receiving the phone at last, Allen was severely tempted to punch in Tyki's number. It would have been easy ‒ so very easy ‒ but it wasn't a solution; not this time around. "I'm calling Lavi," he clarified, mostly to himself. "So that he can come and help out."

As he had somehow anticipated, Lavi didn't ask; didn't question. He agreed, just like that, no questions asked; looks were certainly exchanged and words as well, but no questions. It came as something of a relief to be completely honest.

**- o0o -**

The visit from social services came and went, virtually without a hitch.

The flat was still a bit cramped, but at least now it was clean, although mostly due to the efforts of Allen and Lavi rather than due to those of Cross. Still, Allen supposed that Cross had put some effort into it all, even though most of the aforementioned effort went into his looks and into his performance; into charming the woman from social services, in another matter of speaking.

It was a decidedly interesting and quite horrifying thing to watch; Cross' conning ways. Hell, even Lavi looked mildly impressed by the man's antics, obviously never having witnessed them in this manner before this.

"Scary," Allen softly commented after the two of them had left and gone over to Lavi's place.

There was a slight hum of agreement and a beat of silence followed it, interrupted only by Lavi closing the door behind them.

"So, what's up with the sudden change of mind?" Lavi finally asked, requesting clarification now that the immediate danger had seemingly passed.

Allen mutely retrieved the relevant documents from his backpack, turning them over.

Lavi looked puzzled initially but readily received them and read them, frown forming and deepening as he continued perusing the documents. "Adam Walker?" he finally asked. "Wasn't the name Walker something that Mana gave you?"

Allen swallowed thickly, trying not to think about it. "It was." Or was it?

"But this guy's-"

Allen shook his head, gesturing for the other to continue browsing. "Will. Copy of birth certificate."

Lavi turned the page and stiffened, no doubt having reached the part where the name change was announced; the document announcing that Alana Walker's name change had gone through, and that she was now Miss Alana Campbell in the eyes of the law. "She'd changed her name." Even Lavi seemed a tad shaken or perhaps it was just Allen, imagining things again. "But the name, could it be just a coincidence?"

Allen had actually looked it up, finding that there were at least 128,048 people with the surname Walker in the UK and at least 500,000 Walkers across the pond. It was a fairly common surname, but the paperwork aligned, confirming that this Adam Walker was indeed his grandfather on his mother's side. But…

"Do you think that you and Mana might've actually been related?"

Allen shook his head. At one point in time, he had secretly and quite fervently wished it, but now… it hardly mattered now, did it? Even if Mana and that woman were somehow related ‒ however closely or distantly ‒ and even if they were just strangers sharing surnames with the man now challenging Cross' claim, it was all the same; they were both dead, eventual relations notwithstanding. It didn't matter what they had once been. One had been his father, and the other… the other didn't matter; wouldn't be allowed to matter. She had after all hurt him enough in life; he had no need for her to continue tormenting him from beyond the grave, whether or not it was through some proxy.

"I don't know." He didn't know, and he didn't want to know, truth to be told. Not knowing would probably be easier on all of them.

"So, you're sticking with Cross then?" Lavi finally asked, more out of formality than out of any need for confirmation.

Allen actually laughed. The laughter sounded hollow, even to his own ears. "Better the enemy you know than the one you don't, huh?"

Lavi discarded the documents onto the nearby kitchen counter, gesturing for Allen to take a seat on sofa. "Allen, talk to me."

Again, there was the urge to laugh. "About what?"

Lavi sat down beside him, looking ahead. "About your thoughts; your opinions."

"_I'm scared." _

The confession earned a decidedly alarmed look and an accompanying twitch. "That this Adam Walker would get custody of you?" Lavi finally asked, keeping voice perfectly level.

Allen didn't answer; didn't feel the need. It ought to have been perfectly obvious what he thought about the matter, and he pulled his knees up and closer to himself, hugging them.

"Don't worry. We'll figure something out. We'll figure something out, I promise."

It was tentative at first, as if expecting him to flinch. Moments later though, an arm came to rest across his shoulders, hand clamping down upon one shoulder, tugging. Allen didn't flinch; he allowed himself to be pulled closer, leaning against the other's side. "And if it doesn't work?"

Lavi gave his shoulder a slight squeeze. "Then we'll figure out something else."

It seemed promising, but still uncertain. Still… "I thought you had to work today."

Judging from the way that the other suddenly stiffened, they had forgotten all about it.

"Well, shit." Lavi let go and got up, checking the time on his cell phone with an evident frown before shooting him a look, wordlessly gauging his expression before making his decision. "Call me if there's anything."

Allen found himself snickering. "With what phone?"

It caught Lavi off guard, although it only took a moment or so for him to recover. "Okay, new plan," the redhead announced, clapping his hands together. "We're getting you a phone first thing once I'm off my shift."

Allen smiled wryly at that, thinking about the money that Lavi still didn't know about. "Drive carefully."

"Don't get in trouble," Lavi responded, equally wry, and saluted him before heading off.

Soon thereafter, Allen heard the door slamming shut, waiting a few minutes before he got up himself, heading over to lock the door before leaning against it, contemplating his options.

There was still school to deal with, or so he supposed. If he left soon, he would probably make it to the afternoon lessons. He considered it, but ultimately opted against it. School was after all a secondary matter; it could be dealt with tomorrow, leaving him more time to spin his tales before the event. Cross had after all only vaguely alluded to some type of illness, meaning that Allen himself only had to figure out some type of illness that could explain this latest absence of his.

Looking for inspiration, he logged onto Lavi's computer.

Having plenty of time to spare after spinning his tales, he sat for a moment, wondering at what to do next. Next, fingers almost moving of their own accord, he typed a new bunch of search words and hit enter.

'Adam Walker' gained him about 158,000,000 results.

'Alana Walker' fetched a lot less at about 4,780,000 results.

Allen did a few more searches, not really finding anything relevant. Then, struck by a sense of foreboding, he finally typed 'Mana D. Walker', gaining less than half a million results, none of them that seemed particularly relevant. Acting upon a hunch more than out of anything else, he then tried 'Mana D. Campbell', gaining noticeably fewer results but ones that appeared far more interesting to him.

One of them was a scanned newspaper article; it was of relatively poor quality, but with a bit of effort, Allen found that he could read certain parts of it. Essentially, it was a missing person's notice, requesting information from the public on the whereabouts of Nea and Mana D. Campbell, aged sixteen and fourteen. Reading it and a number of articles accompanying it, Allen experienced a sudden onslaught of nausea.

Two boys aged fourteen and sixteen disappeared. Only one turned up again, as far as the newspapers were concerned at any rate, with the announcement that Nea had been found safe and sound and reunited with his stepfather and guardian, one Lord Adam E. Walker, before going on to become famous for his musical abilities after being adopted by the man.

There was no further mention of Mana D. Campbell; he remained lost as far as the world was concerned. Mana Walker appeared equally lost to the world and to Allen; he was buried six feet deep, never to resurface. But were they the same? Or was it just a crazy coincidence?

Allen went back to Nea Walker, looking and finding a picture. Looking at it, he honestly couldn't believe his eyes, and actually had to blink and rub at his eyes repeatedly and look again to confirm that he wasn't just seeing things. Initially, he thought about Tyki, finding an eerie similarity between the two, like they had been siblings or perhaps even twins or ‒ if nothing else applied ‒ a definite dead ringer. Frankly, it was eerie. However, it was not as eerie as the photograph featured in the article of Nea's apparent return, featuring him seated by a piano with his guardian's arm slung protectively around him.

The smiles were there, although to Allen, one look decidedly smug and the other looked decidedly thin; neither smile reached the eyes, and in the case of the guardian, the eyes weren't even visible behind the round lenses of the man's glasses. In the case of Nea, the eyes were dark, staring straight into the camera with such intensity and such emotion that Allen could not help but wonder if it was aimed at someone specific; if the other was glaring at someone from beyond the lens, sending a message and an accusation at someone beyond place and time. Or perhaps that was just Allen, reading too much into it; reading too much of himself into it. Either way, he shuddered.

Adam E. Walker.

Apparently, the E stood for Earl, although the man himself actually bore the rank of duke. In addition to the title, the man obviously had more than enough money to spare. So, if this man was indeed the same man as the one now seeking to gain guardianship of him, then the man was obviously a better choice than Cross, financially speaking. However…

It hurt to think about Mana, the wound still fresh within him, but something was still obvious to him, and it came to him as clear as day. Mana hadn't been lost; he'd been running. Actually, Nea and he both may have been running, and after being caught, perhaps Nea opted for another solution.

Overcome by nausea, Allen exited a webpage that was evidently a shrine to the late musician. The official report had ruled it a tragic suicide, but the fans and a fair number of newspaper theorised that there had been more sinister motives involved. Personally, Allen took neither side, and instead thought of the dates ‒ of the sickening coincidences ‒ and had to bury his face in his arms in order to simply keep the room from spinning.

Suicide or not, Nea's death had been announced on a Saturday; Mana's had been a week later, back when the news were still fresh and the wounds still raw in a community of musical enthusiasts reeling with shock. Allen hadn't thought much about it then; music had never really interested him, and the man creating it mattered little to him beyond the fact that he occasionally saw Mana pause at a shop window, looking almost longingly at the young man featured on the album covers. "Nea," he'd said ‒ No, _breathed_ ‒ fingers splayed against the glass. "He's alive."

Back then, Allen had said nothing, looking to the stuff in the window and then back again. "Why shouldn't he be?" he had asked. Then, maybe three years later, he suddenly wasn't.

The headlines had been big; screaming.

Mana had lost the light in his eye; what little remained of it. No, just almost. It had flickered back to life only briefly ‒ radiant as never before ‒ only to be extinguished soon thereafter, going out forevermore.

Although he generally tried very hard not to think about it, Allen had always wondered why Mana had acted the way that he did. Being hit by the car had barely seemed to faze him as he got up and trudged onward, moving steadily onward and onward with a look of pained delight adorning his face. Perhaps it had been the shock ‒ on Mana's part as well as on his own ‒ that had twisted their perceptions, leaving Allen frozen where he stood and Mana stumbling away, reaching for the unknown. No, that was not all; there had been something else right before the bus happened. Hadn't he called out to someone ‒ to someone on the other side of the road ‒ trying to catch their attention?

The police had ruled it a tragic accident.

Allen himself ‒ having seen what he had ‒ disagreed, wondering if it was not a suicide.

In hindsight, perhaps it was both?

Or perhaps it was neither?

Allen was spared from pondering the matter any further when the door was unlocked and then opened, admitting Lavi. He looked a bit tired, but the enthusiasm sure made up for it. "You ready?"

No. "Give me ten minutes."

"You get five."

"Seven."

"Seven."

**- o0o -**


End file.
